Oh!
by Brokenx3Dreams
Summary: Rukia Kuchiki finds herself relentlessly drawn to Ichigo Kurosaki, the piano prodigy. With both of them harboring dark pasts, will their weaknesses destroy them?
1. Chapter 1: His Arrival

This is not my usual writing style. I wanted to experiment, and I found I actually liked writing comedy. This story will be based off of my own life. So, while Noblesse Oblige will take a more fantasy approach, this will follow a very relatable [hopefully] path. Many events will be what happened between me and my ex, so I hope I'll be able to connect these emotions to Ichigo and Rukia!

1

* * *

It was trigonometry. It was insane. If someone was to walk in precisely at this moment, they would look at the board and have an aneurism.

Perhaps even a hernia.

Maybe both—at the same time.

At any rate, this math defied any concept of reality or normalcy known to mankind…it really should be medically unsafe to take this course.

I slumped against the wall, thankful for my seat against the white cinderblock. There were rather uncivilized messages scrawled onto the dimpled surface, things about certain body parts and dirty jokes that made you wish brain bleach existed. However, it was a much better pastime to read the scrawled lead than to attempt to decipher the hieroglyphics on the board.

I bumbled along happily, eyes scrolling down the scraggly words until I encountered, "Your an idoit."

_Oh, high school student, I hail thee for your golden words of wisdom._

Decidedly bored once more, I turned to face forward in my seat, staring wistfully out the window into the hallway. Like a deer at a stream, a student that had managed to escape from our class was watering at the nearby water fountain. My gut clenched with envy.

Focus. _Focus. _

Ukitake-san said something that sounded like, "This will be on the test Friday," and my brain short-circuited.

Desperate for a distraction, I twisted my mechanical pencil, wondering if it was the type you could pull out the eraser and insert the lead, or the type you could twist the entire top half off and insert the lead. It was trivial and stupid, but it was still a worthwhile distraction.

Bravely, I glanced up. In retrospect, I should've been awarded a Purple Heart for that action.

I quickly dropped my gaze, regretting that I had laid eyes on the unholy equations clouding the blackboard. There was a _clunk_ as Ukitake-san threw away another stub of chalk. I threw up in my mouth a little.

A quick look at the clock—_don't look at the blackboard, don't look at the blackboard... _It was precisely 12:00 p.m.

My inner child died.

Another hour of unit circles and cosinesinetangent whatchamacallits and various other theorems intended to mindfuck the unsuspecting high school student.

I sank lower in my chair, pouting in my misery.

"Rukia, would you like to answer that question?"

Shit.

I straightened, doing my best to look attentive, although I must have just ended up like I had swallowed something vile because Ukitake lips curled softly in amusement.

Damn that man.

Normally, he was the nicest guy around—someone you could take out for coffee and expect to hear stories about his cats. Something about a new sofa the color of Copenhagen on a rainy day.

"I'm waiting, Rukia."

_He must be schizophrenic…how could he be so nice outside of school but absolutely cruel in the math classroom?_

"Uh."

There was a low chuckle from the other students. _Good, good. Very intelligent, Rukia._

I cleared my throat, trying again, "Uhh…no?"

Ukitake slapped the end of his ruler onto the board, raising a cloud of dust. He indicated a math equation that looked something like Javascript and asked, with raised eyebrow, "The answer to this equation is 'no?'"

The math classroom burst into laughter.

I smiled weakly; it _was_ pretty funny that I had guessed something so completely idiotic and off the radar. But the stare that Ukitake was sending, no, _searing_ me with, could have baked a cookie. Okay, maybe that's not the best analogy in the book…ah, but how can you think properly when you're being speared and roasted by Ukitake Junshiro's dagger eyes?

My face flushed bright red; I could've been an inspiration to lipstick companies all over. Lancome's new cover-girl wearing Trigonometry Sucks. Yeah, that would have a nice ring to it.

I bit my lip.

This was going to be a long period.

* * *

We had a supposedly pleasant surprise waiting for us in History.

"I'm pleased to announce the arrival of a new student!" Kyoraku-san announced, his tangy voice peppering the air with words like orange zest.

Speaking of orange…the boy that walked into the classroom had an unruly mop of hair that was of that color. It wasn't an obnoxious orange…it really was more of a I-bleached-my-hair-at-home-and-now-I-fucking-regret-it orange. So maybe not obnoxious, but a little on the disgusting side. A great first impression, I would say.

"This is Kurosaki Ichigo."

Everyone stared. He stared back.

Kyoraku-san gave an exasperated sigh, tugging Ichigo aside so that he could address the class, "I said, this is Kurosaki Ichigo."

A few heads bobbed, something suspiciously along the lines of, "Hello, Kurosaki-san," was muttered.

"Is that really it?" Kyoraku's eyebrows darted up, his mouth a tight line.

"Hello, Kurosaki-san!" A chorus of voices, twenty strong, rang out.

"Good!" Our history teacher gave us a smug smile and clapped his hands, spinning around and walking back around to his desk. Ichigo hovered near him, unsure of what to do. I knew what he should do. Dye his hair back to its original color. Or _was_ that his natural hair? What tragic combination of X and Y alleles could have led to this hair? It was the color of a dead fox, God have mercy on his poor mother's soul.

My musings about the new student's hair color were interrupted when Kyoraku called, "Kurosaki-san, please take a seat behind Kuchiki-san."

Ichigo stalked over, his book bag slung across his shoulder, scowl etched into his face like woodwork.

He sat down, the chair legs scraping against the floor as his long legs settled into a comfortable position.

I contemplated scooting my own desk forward discreetly, maybe sitting on the edge of my seat, or callously paying someone to switch seats with me; _anything_ to get away from the orange-haired freak. There was something about him I didn't like. And it wasn't just the hair…although that _did_ account for 99% of the atrocities I had already attributed to him.

Maybe a better tactic to keep him away could be to just call him, "You." You know, like how people get attached to things they name? That lady in Switzerland marrying a rollercoaster, who knows what she had named the thing. Yeah, this kid didn't even need to have a name, now he was just a "You" to me.

I turned my attention back on the map Kyoraku was jabbing with a pencil. Somehow, it was already halfway through the history period. Then again, everything after my math period seemed to fly by at a fair pace. Something with a small point poked me between the shoulder blades.

I turned around, finding myself face to face with the new kid.

"Where's the pencil sharpener?"

I looked around, never having used said pencil sharpener because I provided myself with mechanical pencils. Actually, the majority of my mechanical pencils were stolen. But that was beside the point.

I pointed my index finger next to the doorway.

He nodded.

I turned around again, slightly peeved he hadn't thanked me for pointing out his object of interest. Really, kids these days…

The desk behind me scraped against the linoleum as the orange-haired boy stood up and stalked past me up to the front of the classroom. He had crossed approximately three columns of students when Kyoraku-san turned around and fixed him with a firm stare.

"Where are you going?"

Ichigo regarded Kyoraku with a glance that was almost bored, his shoulders still moving his body forward in a strange drawling walk.

"To sharpen my pencil."

"Not in the middle of my lesson, you're not."

Ichigo stopped. He faced Kyoraku, eyes questioning, daring, challenging.

"Then how am I going to take notes?"

"Use another pencil."

"What if I don't have one?"

Kyoraku had been standing so he was looking over his shoulder at Ichigo. He now turned fully, his arms crossing over his chest in an intimidating gesture. The tension was horrid.

"And why," the footsteps echoed hollowly on the ground as Kyoraku-san approached Ichigo, "Kurosaki-san," he was now standing in front of Ichigo, "would you not have another pencil?"

Although Ichigo was quite tall [I admitted this begrudgingly, silently bemoaning my own height], Kyoraku was taller.

He fixed the lanky teen with an iron stare from his high vantage point.

I would have been wilting faster than a sunflower splashed with acid if I were in Ichigo's shoes.

Again, horrible analogies.

"I just don't. Is there really something wrong with sharpening my pencil in the middle of the lesson?"

There was collective gasp from the class.

"Kurosaki-san…" Kyoraku gazed at Ichigo with a quiet menace, "are you talking back to me?"

The boy in question shrugged. "Maybe."

More sharp intake of breaths. I think I started to choke a little from the air tension.

"So." Kyoraku turned swiftly on his heels, going to his desk and rummaging about the papers and various history paraphernalia he kept on his desk.

There were several minutes of silence before he spoke again, his voice quiet but deadly.

"A.M. or P.M?"

"Excuse me?" it was Ichigo's turn to arch his brow, his arms crossing in strict bilateral angles that would have made Ukitake-san proud. Wait, what? I felt a sudden compulsion to slam my head onto my desk.

"Detention time. Which one do you prefer?"

I looked around me; everyone's jaw hung unhinged, their mouths agape like drowning fish, their eyes saucer-wide. Strange, that I was the only person taking this rebellious act in stride, although I couldn't blame them. Disrespect was unheard of in Karakura High—any unfortunate fool to step out of line was usually strung up by his/her thumbs by their parents/principal.

"A.M. That cool with you?"

The smile on Kyoraku's face was sickeningly sweet, I could tell he just wanted to throttle the boy.

The bell clanged, announcing the would-be end of their confrontation and the end of the period. I swept everything into my book-bag, as anxious as everyone to get out of the stifling room.

I glanced backward as I left the room, noting that Ichigo and Kyoraku had not moved from their positions.

I really did not like this kid.

* * *

_That night, I contemplated the happenings of the day, from the melting of my brain in Trigonometry to the arrival of the mysterious boy._

_ In the midst of it all, I drifted off to sleep. _

_I dreamed of throwing a glinting Frisbee, running in a meadow that was endless; laughing until I fell into the night._

_ I dreamed of his smile, laying down with him in the meadow, the smell of flowers around me and in his hair, the sweet tangle of our limbs._

_ Something in me broke, and I guess I must've cried in my sleep, because I woke up and my eyes were blurry and I couldn't see._


	2. Chapter 2: Prove it

2

* * *

It was five o'clock in the morning and I had woken up to the sound of a screeching cat. Actually, it was the sound of Miley Cyrus belting out one of her 'songs.'

Two things came to mind as I felt around for the snooze button (which ultimately failed for I settled for throwing the clock to the floor), which were: why was _Miley Cyrus_ playing on a radio station in _Japan_ and why did I even _know_ who she was?

I heaved an immense sigh, bewildered and slightly disgusted at my revelations. I turned onto my side, pulling my blankets over my head. Breathing in the warmth of the cream sheets, gentle and the smell of damp wood, sun showers, I knew I was not yet ready for the day. In the darkness of the room, the morning sky was a gentle, closed-eye blue against my lace curtains, and in this safe shelter, my dark cocoon, my thoughts began to wander once more.

The weekend had been decidedly pleasant. I went down to Karakura's marketplace with Hisana, my older sister. Then, we went to her apartment, the stucco walls a rustic, orange shade, cracks filled with blooming morning glories.

Everything about Hisana was always so refreshing. From the way she dressed to the places she went to the house she lived in. She had quaint mirrors shaped like fish, lampshades from India, painted with Indian ink, Indian tales with Indian horses and Indian men.

She had a nice view of Karakura; if you stood (well, if _I_ stood on my toes) over the sink, you could see the spire of the church, the rooster weather-vane on Ukitake-san's house.

The rooftop-garden that Hinamori Momo, one of my close friends, kept—she rented a room in an apartment with my other classmates.

You could barely hear the bustle of the streets when you opened the latticed windows—everything was so distant when you were standing in Hisana's apartment.

You felt so ethereal, like a princess, you could make believe and wear tulle dresses and diamond crowns and sit like one, too, drinking your tea with dainty fingers.

Maybe dainty finger-sandwiches, which you could pick up with dainty finger-gloves.

Hisana's place was my haven.

I felt beautiful and calm there, like I was fucking queen of the world. No-one could tell me what to do, and what I did was always right.

There was never any doubt.

Just me, Hisana and our dreams.

She should've surrounded that place with thorns, closed it off from people. Because we never needed him in our lives.

* * *

My reminiscing came to an abrupt end; my eyelids fluttered open, and registered that the room was half-filled with light.

Shit.

I jumped off of my bed (although _catapaulted _would have described my actions more accurately) and dashed to the bathroom. I forgot how to utilize the functions of a doorknob, and stood there for a minute, turning, pulling violently on the brass knob. When I made my way into the actual bathroom, I promptly began seize my toothbrush and scrub my teeth vigorously.

I could practically hear my enamel screaming for mercy.

Water sprayed in all directions as I lathered my face and bit back a wince as soap found its way into my eyes. When I emerged from drowning in the sink, I looked around, giving the coffee-tiled space a cursory glance.

It looked like someone had tried to bathe a cat. And how the water had gotten as far as the opposite wall, I didn't even kn—

"Good morning, Rukia."

I stiffened. Turned. A shadow had fallen over me from the open door, the moon eclipsing the sun.

"Good morning, Onii-sama…"

"I trust you had a sound night's sleep?"

I scratched the back of my neck ruefully, taking a sudden interest in the wood paneling of the floor.

I could feel his cold, marble-like stare on my head.

We stood that way for several, long, uncomfortable seconds before I remembered that I was about to miss the bus.

And 'ere commenced my ungainly pilgrimage to the door as I lunged for my book-bag, yelled something that hopefully sounded like, "See you later, onii-sama!", scrabbled for my textbooks and tore out the door.

Thankfully, as my only saving grace, I turned the doorknob properly this time and was outside in record time.

The sound of my loafers [how I detested those things, Italian, leather, buckles and all] clicked and clacked against the concrete sidewalk. I nearly overturned an elderly woman who was walking her dog, earning me a frumpy glare.

I would have stopped to apologize, but ahead of me, the bus was already inching forward to the platform.

It stopped with a gentle, puffing exhale, a giant, grey tabby stretching itself languorously in the early morning sun.

Blue and green stripes ran down its sides.

The windows were glossy and moving with gold bangles of light from sunlight filtering in amidst cherry blossom trees adorning the sides of the streets.

I could see Momo's face, small and angular like a mouse's, peering anxiously out at me as I sprinted to the bus.

The door unfolded, and I clambered on ungracefully, panting and wheezing like an asthmatic hamster who had just finished a rather taxing run on his hamster wheel. (I really have to stop with these analogies.)

I tottered my way to Momo, swaying and feeling as if my feet may buckle from underneath me.

It really wasn't because I was currently dying of asphyxiation/feeling like my internal organs were combusting—the bus-driver had shifted his gears, pulling us forward unceremoniously without even one backward glance in my direction. Heartless old bastard. I heard he was a farmer; fervently, I hoped his tomatoes would rot. _May a cow kick him where the sun don't shine._

All murderous thoughts aside, I sat down beside my friend, adjusting my school uniform, the black blazer, the indigo silk ribbon bow, the white dress shirt with polished, pearl buttons.

I smiled, noting the splendid condition of the fabrics. I was a neat freak; my room was immaculate.

My clothes were always hung with great care in my closet, always folded along the seams, the socks always matching.

I was a person of order when it came to simple things; the way my bento was made, the way my desk always had to be aligned with everyone else's when we sat down in the classroom.

The blackboard needed to be squeaky clean, shining like the gleaming pelt of a killer whale as it devoured a seal. Ah, there my analogies go again. Always ruining my self-montage.

I turned to Hinamori, her face turned to look out the window, her hair pulled into a neat bun.

I envied the way her hair was always so clean and neat. My hair was something about me that I could not stand.

It had been of a fair length, reaching past my shoulders. A kid I had baby-sat last summer stuck gum into my hair. Afterwards, a reaction of epic proportions took place. (I never went back to their place again, or what was left of their place, anyways.)

I became my sister's summer art project.

Something about wispy layers and _ooh, look how they frame your face so nicely_.

Hisana thought I looked 'fab.'

I was just grossed out by the stray hairs that were far too short to stick in a nice, neat little bun.

And there you have it—the death of my hair, the half-assed rejuvenation my sister gave it, and the somewhere-in-between I grew to accept it because, after all, it _was_ Hisana, we're talking about.

She was always the artsy type, the kind that wore pink blazers and Yves Saint Laurens, the girl who wore lace gloves with her umbrella when it rained.

I didn't like the rain, but she did.

So, I tried liking it.

If Hisana liked something, there was something in it that was to be liked. It was like she looked at something and all of its good qualities surfaced, like goldfish in a pond.

I think that's why Byakuya, my brother-in-law, loves her so much. He's callous and holds everyone at arm's length. He wears black, silk suits and white, silk scarves. His hair is impeccable, groomed and sleek, the peacock always preening his feathers.

Everything about Byakuya Kuchiki is order and angles. He is the law, and you follow him like the corners of a triangle, _one-eighty degrees_; hell yes, you _better _stay one-eighty degrees away from him.

But Hisana changed him. It was like she melted his icy exterior, brought him alive, like he was some sculpture turned to stone by Medusa's stare. She was his Greek goddess, he fawned on her and loved her the silent way that people love when they are not good with expressing their feelings.

* * *

A bump in the road jolted me from my thoughts.

I was beginning to drift off a lot these days. I looked over the aisle into the next, where my other friends, Abarai Renji and Shuuhei Hisagi sat.

They were slumped over in painful-looking positions.

I think I spotted drool happily making its way out of their mouths. Before he had fallen asleep, Renji had drawn some vulgar things in the condensation on the window.

I rolled my eyes. _Boys_.

The quiet, lazy chatter of the other students filled my ears, a small, gentle buzzing like walking under fluorescent lights.

It was nice, listening to other people talk like this. It was air in your lungs, the wind in your face. Sometimes, listening really should be all you do.

I turned, looking out Momo's window. The trees and walls of flowers and fountains shuttled past, the office buildings with their streetlamps that looked like dolphins, we were going by so fast.

The tar of the road blended with the yellow paint, the division of road lines blurred, a Monet of Karakura.

Momo was withdrawn, barely there. She was a leaf on the very surface of a pond, drifting with every gentle breeze or current. I felt as if I'd break her if I so much as breathed on her.

"Tired, Momo?" I asked softly, not wanting to disturb the soft, dream-like quality on her face.

She nodded, letting her head rest on the back of our seat. The leather was a crinkled, limp, teal and it smelled like crayons.

I leaned back with her, my eyes drifting to the metal ceiling. Traffic lights and car lights drifted across the metallic surface, curves and gleaming sequins of jade green, crimson, gold; a Chinese lantern festival.

These days are the days when your soul allows everything to be quiet. When you yourself want to be quiet, and just _listen. _The steady groan of the bus wheels, rolling, reeling, rushing forward; is it something like life? Because it is bringing us closer to something we don't understand. I exhaled softly. These moments were the times I missed him the most...

I let my eyelids fall on my eyes, closing them to the whispering world.

* * *

I made my way through the school halls. I should've brought a miner's hat, or something of the sort; maybe an ice pick or grappling rope.

One does not simply walk through the halls of Karakura; one must _excavate_ the halls.

It was a jungle, what with the screeching of unruly freshmen, the wild tangle of girls gossiping by water fountains, the rushed voices of people doing last-minute homework.

It was giving me an earsplitting headache.

_Oh, how I hated people._

Don't get me wrong, I can be quite the social butterfly, but, these people…

They were an uncultured mess, swimming in the cesspool of society. Their very sight, their smells, their sounds; they all repulsed me.

I flattened myself against the white, cinderblock walls, trying to avoid two girls that were dancing around like schizophrenics that had discovered cocaine.

Something about getting an A on their last Biology tests.

Pathetic. I had gotten an A+.

Just sayin'.

* * *

In the music hallway, things were exponentially calmer. The lights were dim, painting the doors, walls, floor in a muted gold.

My shoes clacked against the polished, granite floor, the color of balmy beach sand.

I peered into doors, looking for an open practice room.

To my delight, I found the one with the best piano, quickly peering around and making sure an over-zealous piano student wouldn't tackle me.

I closed the door behind me, hearing the heavy oak click into its place in the doorframe.

The room smelled like old sheet-music, the remarkable scent of musical prodigies. Rhythms and notes, the sharps and flats, climbing and descending; the lovely, rolling hills of music, the country that was almost as old as time itself.

I breathed deep, as if trying to absorb the brilliance I was surrounded in.

The door opened violently behind me, the lights clicking on.

Stark white flooded the small room. I blinked in surprise, turning to find the new kid standing at the open door, hand still grasping the doorknob.

He was scowling, totting his blazer and suit-case over his right shoulder. His sharp, amber gaze fixed on me.

"What are you doing here?"

My surprise quickly turned into indignant self-righteousness, "Ah, excuse me? That's what I'm supposed to be asking you."

He snorted, rolling his eyes. He kicked the foot of the door impatiently, "Whatever, can I please use this practice room?"

Hmph. At least he had the decency to say the magic word.

(Although it was not so magic. I had used it in an attempt to get an extra cookie from my sister when I was little. To this day, Hisana still owes me a cookie. Chocolate chip, mind you.)

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, shutting my eyes, pouting.

"First come, first served," I stated. I could feel his gaze searing me.

If it was possible for me to be a piece of meat, I would have been ultra-well-done by now. Wait…

"That's too bad. All the other practice rooms are shit, and I really need this one."

My eyes flew open, my eyebrows creasing; I was rather irritated he had interrupted my train of thought with that obnoxious voice of his.

"How do you even know the rest are bad? Have you even tried playing in them?"

"Yeah, I stayed after school yesterday."

I stared at him, meeting his gaze evenly.

We were immobile.

My eyes slid past him, to the clock on the wall behind him.

"Ahh…Ichigo, is it?"

He appeared somewhat startled.

"Wha…yeah?"

I smiled coyly, letting my finger slowly rise and point at the clock.

"I do believe you had an A.M. detention today."

His posture stiffened, then relaxed. This boy named Ichigo smiled, his grin wild and devilish. (Although, if I may say so myself, he just looked constipated. Someone must re-evaluate the standards of 'fierce' in our society.)

"Sure, I'll just talk to him about it, later."

I truly was speechless. What kind of a kid was this, someone who ignored detentions and marched into practice rooms claiming that they were his?

Someone just newly arrived at this school, someone with nothing, _no-one_, to back him up?

He stepped into the room, shutting the door close with a loud, defiant click.

He laid his belongings out methodically on a chair sitting against the wall, turning and adjusting the piano bench to his liking.

He looked up at me, smiling his cocky grin.

"Wanna sit down?"

He sat, as if to demonstrate, stretching his long legs languorously, his toes touching the brass pedals.

I glared at him, now pitifully aware of my short stature. Standing up, I nearly matched his eye-level when he sat down.

Again, let me re-iterate this…tattoo it onto your forehead, if need be—I do not like this kid.

This was yet another reason to add him to my hit list.

I turned, as if to leave.

I heard him chuckle softly behind me. And that was what did it.

I whipped around, throwing my belongings next to his. In retrospect, I should've hit him in the face with the sleeve of my jacket. (But blood-stains, despite the sweet taste of victory, would not be so sweet to wash out.)

I marched to the chair, plopping myself down smartly, eyeing him in defiance. I threw up the piano cover, revealing the glossy rows of ivory keys.

"Let's play." My voice was alien, even to myself, icy and demanding.

His eyes, a fierce, gleaming amber, matched mine in cold heat as he raised his hands to the keys.

The first notes that burst into the air like fireworks made the smug smirk on my face disappear.

This kid...

What was he?


	3. Chapter 3: Prodigy

3

* * *

The room was eerily quiet after Ichigo's fingers left the keys. I was still, my eyes not registering what was in front of me, my ears ringing with the last notes of the song.

"Did you like it?" His voice was quiet, not a trace of arrogance that I was expecting to find.

"Y-yes…" I said, my voice soft. For once in my life, I was speechless.

Ichigo Kurosaki, the piano prodigy.

I looked over at him, still in a daze. He was looking down at his hands, wringing his fingers together.

"That's my favorite song. Second movement of the Pathetique Sonata by Beethoven."

"It's beautiful."

"It is."

Our conversation faded, but it felt natural, as if it was supposed to be this quiet and muted.

"Do you mind getting out, now?"

Oh, Ichigo. You devilish child, you. You always _enjoy_ ruining the mood, _don't_ you?

I crossed my arms across my chest, feeling my spine tingle with irritation. Which, theoretically, was quite rare, since spines aren't supposed to tingle. This kid…this brat…this prodigy. I didn't know what to make of him. At a loss for a good reason why I should remain, I looked out the door to the clock. The hands indicated that it was 7:25.

"We have five minutes to get to class," I noted, standing up and brushing my skirt off. He watched me stand, feet pressing at each of the pedals, alternating to produce a thumping sound, making it sound as if the piano had a heartbeat.

I ignored his silence, snatching up my things, checking to see if I had left any items of importance. I walked over to the door, disconcerted by the fact that Ichigo was the biggest jerk around, but…the best piano player I had ever heard to date.

"Thanks for wasting my time," he remarked airily, as I turned the handle. I froze, turning my head over my shoulder to shoot him an icy glare. For a moment, I wondered if I could kick him in the face. There were no cameras in the practice rooms, after all…

"Just stay out of this practice room from now on, okay? It's mine."

I took a deep breath, ready to retaliate with a form of insult [completely relevant, mind you] that would bring him to his knees. I released the handle, took a step back. Then I shouted.

"Your hair is the most disgusting shade of orange I have ever seen!"

It was rather impressive how quickly I bolted out of the room.

I was out of there faster than he could reply, but not before seeing the priceless look on his face. It was officially burned onto the back of my eyelids. It would've made the most cynical, homeless, [and sober] bum roar with laughter. Tonight, I would be laughing in my dreams.

* * *

The cacophony of students rushing to their classes grew louder and louder as I wove about the music hallways into the main chambers of the school building.

It was madness.

Like a rushing river, students pushed past each other, the traffic flow moving at an alarming pace. Occasionally, the presence of a freshman going the wrong way in a lane resulted in angry shouts and exasperated sighs.

I turned corners, careful to keep to the right side of the hallway. My freshman year, I had foolishly wandered into the left lane of the hallway, and consequently, was nearly swept off my feet down the stairwell.

I passed rows of beige lockers, classrooms with glass windows, eccentric murals that made the entire student population want to spoon their eyes out. Well, except for that 0.01% that enjoyed reading dictionaries and almanacs for fun.

We will not mention any names, _achem, Nanao, _here.

Apparently, the principal thought it would be a good idea to plaster 'inspirational' sayings sporadically about the school walls. God save the souls of the unfortunate artists who had to devote precious seconds of their lives to paint those murals.

I slipped into my homeroom class, settling into my seat, which was closest to the door.

Outside, students streamed past, their conversations overlapping and skirling about like the currents of a fast-flowing river. I rotated in my seat, spotting Momo sitting in one of the back rows. A quick glance at the clock affirmed that I had two minutes to spare until the homeroom period began. A few seconds later, I was standing next to her desk, letting her words fill my head.

Something about White Day and _ohmygoshIdon'tknowwhattodo! _I silently kicked myself for forgetting how obsessive Momo could get about romantic occasions. I gently reminded my distraught friend that White Day was still a good month away. It was like talking to a chinchilla or something; one wrong word and she would leap up violently or lash out and probably take out someone's eye.

She pouted, jabbing at her desk with the eraser end of her pencil, "You don't understand, Rukia! I _need_ to get the perfect gift for Hitsugaya! I can't just wait around till the last minute to just _buy _something for him!"

She sighed happily, clasping her hands together, wiggling in her seat. "It needs to be perfect…it needs to be made w-with…with _love_!"

I was tempted to smack her over the head with a two-by-four.

With a nail in it.

All of this romance made me want to strangle a kitten. [Not that I ever would, rest assured mentally-disturbed members of PETA/kittens all over the world that can understand Rukia-talk.]

I leaned on the back of her seat, rolling my eyes, reciting the same, rehearsed line I had been telling her all week, "I'm sure he'll love whatever you get him, so stop _worrying_, Momo."

"Do you really think so?"

"Hinamori Momo, would I lie to you?"

She stared at me.

I stared back.

"Do you really think so?" she asked, once more.

"_Thanks, _Momo. I'm glad I'm such a trustwort—"

"Ooh! Hey, look! Lookie, look, over there, Rukia! It's the new student!"

I shot up with great alacrity. I swallowed, hard, trying to force down the bile that had risen in my throat. My inner child revived itself from its death by trigonometry—and promptly committed suicide.

That jerk was in our homeroom?

Hell to the no.

I think I growled. Maybe snarled, because Momo was easing away from me in her chair. But you've got to give me credit; at least I didn't resort to stomping my foot. Now _that _would be immature. Then again, so is making fun of someone for their hair col—

Shit. He was making his way towards me.

The school bell rang, death tolling in my ears. My life flashed past me [and it was pathetically dull, I had to admit], my pulse dangerously high. Light-headed…I was feeling light-headed.

I looked everywhere except in front of me, to my left, at brightly-colored motivational posters and clever literature puns, to my right, at the teacher's solid, oak desk decorated with half-graded papers and pens.

I looked to the front again; shit, shit, _shit! _

Ichigo was still walking towards me, his cast-iron gaze fixed solely on me. I could practically feel coiling, steaming fury emanating from the kid. I was frantic…I must've looked like someone attempting to 'pop-and-lock,' I was so desperate, trying to find an escape route. Or maybe someone who needed an exorcism; Emily Rose, anyone?

I figured if I got a somewhat good running start, I could hop the desk closest to me; albeit, I would be kicking Momo in the face and flashing my entire homeroom class in the process, but that was beside the point. What was worse—dying a horrible and unusual death at the hand of the most bipolar piano player known to mankind, or exposing oneself to one's peers whilst nearly decapitating one's best friend? Oh, Byakuya, please forgive me…

"Hey…midget."

I didn't notice he was standing directly in front of me, his crisp, white shirt nearly brushing my nose.

He smelled good.

Wait, what?

Someone, get me a two-by-four, _quick. _

"You wanna move? I kinda need to get to my seat."

I looked up. You don't understand…I looked _up. _I _had_ to tilt my head up to look into his eyes.

How infuriating.

Mentally, I jotted down a note to purchase in-soles the next time I went to the convenience store.

I could see the amusement dancing in his eyes at our severe difference in heights.

"Kuchiki-san, could you please take a seat?" the teacher, Kisuke-san, called.

"O-okay!" My shaky reply made the smirk on Ichigo's face widen.

I backed away from his tall, lean frame, then tried to ease past him. The aisle was narrower than I thought, and I flinched as I brushed against him.

Settling in my desk, I tried to not think of the way his eyes had followed me, their dark, scorching heat. My fingers curled into fists in my lap as I bowed my head nervously, wondering if he was watching me. This was stupid.

Since when was I ever attracted to people like him?

People that were total jerks, and utterly mind-boggling when it came to deciphering their thought processes?

I turned slightly, pretending to look at Momo. Ichigo was sitting next to her, elbow propped up on the desk, chin in hand. He was watching Urahara. Kisuke-san was up front, punctuating his daily speech with the re-opening and closing of the traditional fan he carried in his hands.

"We'll need to decide new class presidents for the next quarter. Hopefully we reach a decision before spring break."

The students shifted nervously. No-one wanted to be class president. It entailed the meticulous up-keeping of the room by means of scrubbing the chalkboard every day after school and writing important notes on the board early before school. Also, you were in charge of knowing the whereabouts of every student. It was almost like a license to stalk; Matsumoto had enthusiastically pitched a tent in Gin's backyard for the duration of her time as class president.

"So, we'll just put our names into my hat," Urahara Kisuke produced a green and white striped bucket hat, "and the first boy and girl I draw are the class presidents!"

His excited tone was contrasted sharply by the soft groans from my fellow classmates. Urahara walked down the row, handing out small strips of paper. Reluctantly, one by one, each student moved to scrawl their name onto the white strips of doom. I thought nothing of it, signing my name and even adding a small heart at the end. I'm so cute.

I looked back at Ichigo. He was slumped against the back of his seat, not even moving to lift his pencil—which was nowhere to be seen. Always playing the rebel.

I leaned my chin against my hand, folding my legs over each other, then uncrossed them once more. It was one of my weird quirks, I heard you got spider veins from doing that. Something about blood circulation in your legs going bad from the pressure. Pressure is always so bad. It's like steaming wine, turning it to vinegar. Peer pressure, teenagers with cigarettes pressed to their lips, nicotine trails leading nowhere. It's all about the goddamn pressure. I crossed and uncrossed my legs.

Urahara drew near me, and I slipped my paper in, careful not to touch the fabric of the hat [God knows when was the last time he had washed it.]

Once Kisuke-san had judiciously mixed up the names, he rolled up his sleeves, his knobbly fingers reaching in, producing the first, unfortunate victim, "A blank sheet of paper."

There was soft laughter around the room, Urahara smiling in spite of himself. He flicked his ash blonde bangs out of his eyes, gazing with humor-filled eyes at Ichigo.

"That would be you, I presume?"

Ichigo sank lower in his chair, scowl widening. I was beginning to think his face would get stuck like that.

"Second up…Kuchiki Rukia!"

What the fuck.

I must've said that out loud, because next thing I knew, all of the students in the room were laughing. Kisuke-san paced over to me, his shoes clicking smartly on the tiles, "Mind your language, Kuchiki-san. It's quite surprising, actually, since your brother is a stone. Not even a word out of him, let along swear words."

He laid a pack of chalk on my desk. I resisted the urge to pick it up, whip around and pelt it at Renji, who was sitting behind me with a wide, toothy grin on his face.

"Don't be a douche," I hissed at him, eyes narrowing into poisonous slits. I was like a copperhead, waiting to strike.

"Sucks to be you," he informed me nonchalantly, ducking so that my fist missed his face. He casually began flipping through his school-bag, trying to look busy. I glared, hard, before making eye contact with Ichigo.

He was unabashedly making the iciest, most unfriendly stare at me from across the room.

I could've been turned to stone.

People near me shivered. NASA would have been most enamored with the icy wavelengths he was emitting and would have promptly used it to stop global warming.

Urahara approached the orange-haired teen, producing a bulky, black, spiral notebook.

"All of my notes," the man stated, tucking his hands into his pockets and striding away. He moved to go behind his desk, adjusting papers here and there. After shuffling some packets against the desk until the edges were evenly aligned, Urahara looked up, beaming, "The rest of you may go to your first period class now. Kuchiki-san, Kurosaki-san, please stay with me for a few minutes. I'll write both of you passes."

I waited for everyone to filter out before I picked up my school-bag [which suddenly felt much heavier] and walked over.

I studied my distorted reflection in the glassy surface of the floor, the bars of fluorescent lights glowing on the black-and-white-mottled ceiling.

Next to me, I saw Ichigo standing, almost slouching, his posture bad, but his height still greater than mines by far. I idly contemplated the idea of kicking him behind his knees so that he'd fall, a house of cards, dropping to the ground.

"What you guys need to do," Kisuke-san's eyes roved over his calendar, his hands tugging open drawers and darting like spiders through folder tabs, "is come in early every morning to write the news of the day for the class. That information can be picked up in the main office." He shut the drawers loudly, startling dust and the smell of watery cologne into the air.

Urahara stopped to look up, pointing his index finger at the black notebook under Ichigo's arm, "Those are the notes for my lesson plans throughout the year. Your jobs are to get whatever I need out of my storage room and set it up before I get to class. Also done," he took a highlighter, tested it for ink, tossed it out, "early in the morning."

The pen hit the bottom of the trashcan with a _thunk_.

I felt my stomach drop as well. Damn it all. I'm a growing girl, [please don't laugh], I need my sleep; I can't go in early for all of _this!_

"After school, please clean up the room by washing the chalkboards with a sponge and bucket of soapy water. Those are also to be found in my storage room."

"The water?"

"I have jugs of it sitting along a shelf somewhere. You can go back there and see for yourself tomorrow morning; not too hard to find."

There was the rattling of the keyboard as he flicked on his computer monitor and typed in a password to his school server account. Screens flitted up, illuminating his handsome face in a soft, white and green glow.

"Now, you two are dismissed."

He handed us yellow cards, his initials scrawled below lines of text no-one really read, not even the teachers themselves.

"Best of luck tomorrow, and have fun!"

His cheery demeanor could not reach me. I forced a smile in Urahara's direction, not meeting his eyes, before hurriedly rushing out of the room.

Behind me, Ichigo followed suit, a black shadow.

Oh, this was going to be fun.


	4. Chapter 4: Punk

A/N: I think I need to make my chapters longer...what do you guys think? Anyways, school's finally out for me, so I'll be able to write longer chapters from now on :)

4

* * *

This was stupid.

I opened the window sill, the plastic creaking, the warm air swirling in with the scents of the bustling marketplace below. Striped tarp awnings billowed in the wind, carrying the calls of venders and playing children. Bicycles whirred, clicked, footsteps and footfalls, the eternal clockwork of street traffic, restless like the French Revolution.

I braced my palms against the window frame as I leaned my head out. The sun set my hair on fire, my face tingling from the sudden and engulfing brightness.

"Ichigo!" Dad called from the kitchen that was a hallway away. I ducked back in, careful to avoid smacking my head on the window.

"What?"

"Breakfast is ready!"

I pulled on the drawstring, the blinders coming down like a fishing line, bobbing and descending. The wooden floor of my room was a muted chestnut, reflecting the little furniture I had; the bed with its black pillows, black sheets, black mattress, the table a solid oak on four legs—the modest, black chair that squeaked when you shifted your weight.

Few things decorated the walls; one white, three crimson. I asked Dad by he had left one white, and he said that he didn't know.

Figures. I'll have to paint it myself one of these days.

I found my school-bag and slung it over my shoulders, making sure it didn't muss up my uniform. As I left my room and headed down the dark hallway, I reflected on my priorities for the day.

Then I remembered.

Damn it.

I was supposed to go in early for class president duties with that short, black-haired girl. The one that looked like she was constantly in labor, what with all that pouting and brow-creasing she always did.

She resembled a honey badger; you know, those animals that go around fucking up all the other animals that gets in its way?

Yeah.

Or maybe a wasp; small, constantly angry, but easy enough to shut up—after all, you just had to step on it or something…

"Ichigooo! I made you pancakes!"

My father, Isshin, waltzed out of the kitchen to greet me, frilled yellow apron whirling and raising a cloud of white flour. I jumped back, trying to avoid his floury embrace, "Stop it! I need to get to school and do something with my life, unlike you!"

He pouted, trying to offer the pancakes to me by shoving the plate into my line of vision. I'm pretty sure a millimeter closer to my corneas, and he would have scarred me for life. I'd be at the mercy of wasps and honey badgers and angry, black-haired girls all over the world.

"B-but, Ichigo! I do do things! Like this!" He waggled his eyebrows, "I made my big boy breakfast! I even made it with…" Dad pulled a strawberry out of his apron pocket,garnishing the flat pastry, "strawberries!"

I turned away from him, giving an exasperated sigh.

He followed me, "How many fathers do you know do that? Huh? Answer me, Ichigo!"

"I'm going," I grumbled, closing the door in his face amidst his tirade that was slowly going from slightly annoyed to a near-abusive state of rage where he would most likely attempt to kick me to death.

The air of the apartment corridor was musty, smelling of moldy cardboard, the once-white walls peeling, now the color of sour milk, and the floor tiles split and chipped with tattoos of mud-tracks and black skid marks.

I made my way to the elevator, past a discarded Warhol painting. It was a grotesque Marilyn Monroe, someone having scribbled out her eyes with Sharpie and outlined the heart-shape of her smile in blue crayon. The picture of broken greatness.

The bell dinged, the elevator number lighting up with a muddy orange. I looked around me to see if anyone was coming down the hallway. I hated waiting for the elevator; it felt as if someone was watching me through the faded walls.

I felt exposed, just standing there with nothing to do but to listen to the steely grind of the elevator lines, tugging and pulling its way up.

Once inside, I breathed a sigh of relief, leaning against the metal railing. The ceiling was a tacky, painted foil that was chipping and curling away, but I could still see broken shards of my reflection. I pushed the buttons, directing myself to the basement floor, where my motorcycle would be waiting for me.

In stark contrast to the stifling, crowded atmosphere of the building, the underground parking lot was cool, dark, smooth. The glass lights above, like startling bug eyes, gleamed on the slick, black tar of the pavement, the fading yellow lines, the old concrete pillars. Someone had been smoking next to my motorcycle, for there was the stamped, broken squiggle of a used cigarette and a discarded Marlboro box.

I never really understood what smoking did for you. With thoughts already clouded, who need clouded lungs? It seems ironic, that the smoke would lift you up, but instead, I imagine it filling the body like sweet cyanide, the perfume of despair.

I slipped in and turned the key, felt the click and the engine roar to life. The bike purred, raising its voice into a snarl when I snapped on my helmet and revved the engine. I paid the toll, slipped in my fifty cents, watched the striped bar raise, and sped out into broad daylight.

Taking a shortcut here and there, I managed to avoid most the civilian traffic. It was a bitch driving in such a cramped area. Dad thought it was nice, being able to walk everywhere and all, but I just felt claustrophobic.

I made it to school within ten minutes, passing schoolchildren who crowded and pointed, street punks who waved their fingers, the nail polish black and chipped, to howl at me, baring studded lips, teeth, tongues.

Pulling into the school parking lot, I saw another crowd forming.

"That's Kurosaki Ichigo," I heard them say, pointing and whispering. I shrugged off my helmet, stepping off and away from my bike.

"Did he bleach his hair or something?"

"What a punk. He's even got a motorcycle."

I tousled my hair with one hand, nonchalantly passing them in large, confident strides. That is, until I spotted the girl. The one who would forever hold the context of a wasp to me.

Small, vicious and annoying.

I could feel her dagger-like eyes piercing me. It was like getting a CAT scan, or something, it felt as if she could see through me, see everything that was wrong with me, and she wouldn't be afraid to point it out. The aura she gave off was demonic; I think the grass was shriveling up and dying underneath her feet.

A wind buffeted her hair playfully, tossing it about her delicate, heart shaped face. Her fists clenched at her side, she was approaching me with the complexion of an extremely disgruntled naval officer.

Shit.

* * *

_Ichigo._

I saw him pull into the parking lot with careless ease; I had half the mind to tell everyone who was watching him to fuck off so I could kill him properly and bury his remains in a steel vault twenty hundred feet below this very ground.

Screw that. I should cremate his body, vacuum up his ashes, and send that vacuum to Hell.

He was walking towards me, looking well rested in his black blazer and dress pants. I would have appreciated the immaculate manner in which he looked after his clothes, [although it was very surprising, considering his general attitude] but my mind was short-circuiting and I was fuming, seething, with indignity.

How dare he! That asshole was nearly an hour late!

I kicked at the concrete, wincing at the reverberations the action sent through my foot. It only served to fuel my anger, and I marched up to him, prodding him, hard, in the chest.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I demanded, not caring that everyone was watching us with amusement.

"What?" His eyes were calm, soft even. He looked down evenly at me, in the manner that a parent observes a distraught child.

I was not going to tolerate this. I refuse to ever be made a fool.

Viciously, I kicked his shin. He fell back two paces, keeling over to the ground. He surveyed the white scuff mark left right below his knee, then his head snapped up to look at me. Those docile eyes had transformed into something quite devilish; the tension between us sizzled and spat through the air, the angry crackling of an open-ended wire.

"Why did you do that?" he shouted.

I moved closer to him, satisfied his current height allowed me to look down at him.

"That was my question. Why'd you come so late, huh? You're such an immature brat!"

"You're the one who kicked me," he pointed out in a low, furious voice. He stood up, slowly, testing his right leg, trying in vain to brush off the scuff mark. I smirked as I surveyed my work, and the disgruntled look on his face.

His face was angular, narrow, with tension curving the corners of his mouth and brows.

He was not as unattractive as I had first perceived him. Although his hair was bright in the sunlight, it didn't seem so unnatural anymore.

But it was his eyes I couldn't forget. I had thought about them, remembered only them when I fell asleep last night. I felt stupid, foolish, my anger giving way to something akin to a nervous trembling.

It was those eyes watching me now, those tawny, gold-brown depths, like topaz stones.

They moved me, made me feel something wonderful stirring alive in my bones. His gaze was dark waters from a dark tide. I was stranded on the shore, watching them come in, bearing things carried across the ocean.

"—and…wait, are you listening to me?"

"Ahh…" I shook my head, blinked.

Oh right, this idiot was still talking to me.

"Wait, uh, sorry, what were you saying?"

He gave a frustrated groan, raking his hands through his hair, "Ugh! Just…just forget it!"

His book-bag swung angrily in his fist as he strode towards the school doors. I followed, arms folding across my chest. A sideways glance confirmed that the crowd of students had dissipated.

"No, what did you say?" I inquired good-naturedly, catching up to Ichigo. His legs were long, he moved far too quickly. I found myself trotting to keep up.

"Nothing," he grumbled, shooting me an irritated look. I smiled softly.

Ichigo turned around so suddenly I almost ran into his back.

"What's with you?" he asked callously.

"Meaning…?" I arched my eyebrows.

"You're like, bi-polar or something. One moment, you're pissed as fuck and you're kicking me, the next, you're looking off into the distance with googly eyes and not even paying attention to me as I apologize!"

"Oh, you apologized?"

"_Yeah that's right_, I apologized! And you didn't even hear it! Don't blame me if you want to hear it later; I'm not repeating myself."

I snorted, dodging past him, grabbing the door handle. I opened it wide enough for me to slip in, closing it in Ichigo's face. His face seemed to go through every color on the color wheel before settling on an impressive shade of purple-red.

I kept my hand on the door handle, tugging as he pulled. The door trembled with our efforts, but he managed to yank it open with one, powerful tug. Towering over me, his hands were a hot brand on my shoulders as he shoved me against the wall, pinning me there.

His head loomed close, his low voice making me shiver, although he didn't notice, "Don't try anything with me, midget."

Then, he released me, and without a backwards glance, walked around the corner and disappeared out of sight. I stood there, still against the wall, my skin tingling where he had touched me.

He had been so close to me that I had caught his scent, hot and possessive; tangy like wood-smoke.

My knees were weak, but I forced myself to start walking.

I knew he'd be there in homeroom, I knew Urahara Kisuke was going to be upset with him. I knew I was going to be nervous for him, after all, Kisuke-san was terrifying when he was mad. But above all, the stark reality was, the one truth I hated admitting was; this feeling of nervousness was coming from just being around him.

This was stupid.


	5. Chapter 5: A Moment in Time

A/N: I really haven't been to many places [especially the ones listed in this chapter/will be listed later on], considering that I'm only 15...so looking at photographs and trying to place myself in those places was a great writing exercise. And I feel like I'm really bi-polar with my writing; one moment, I'll be really angsty, and the next, I'll be itching to write comic relief. So tell me if my bi-polarity [is that even a term?] gets too nauseating. OH, and it was really awkward introducing the whole concept of Rukia being a musician, since it was something my muse vomited out at the last second, and I was like, "Holy shit, I HAVE to run with this, since this will open up so many venues!"

Any advice on how to tighten up my writing will be greatly appreciated! Thank you!

Without much further ado, here's the chapter!

5

* * *

_ Everything was dark, everything was turning into shadows, I was running. I could hear him behind me, panting, his breath coming out as if it pained him. __**Rukia**__, he rasped, __**Rukia, why does it hurt so much?**_

_The city was twisted, a mad version of its former self. Blood ran in rivulets down the sidewalks, people walked by, dressed in black, their skins ashen and grey. I found a man, turned him around so I could ask him where the hell I was going. _

_He was faceless. _

_Then I was screaming, my hands burning, oh they burned, where they had touched the faceless stranger. And there was his damn voice again, like a pallid, skeletal finger, drawing figure-eights, pentagons on my back. Trickling down my spine, a knife's cold, serrated edge, sinking into my skin. The mad surgeon, with his wicked tools and his wicked grin. The Cheshire Cat, coming down off of his amphetamines. _We're all mad here.

_**Rukia, where are we? Tell me what happened, sweetheart. **_

_I clasped my hands over my ears, sank to my knees on the destroyed pavement. There was no escape. There would be__ no escape. I felt like something in me was breaking, and I couldn't hold together the pieces anymore because they cut me so bad, making me bleed black blood, all over and everywhere, poisoning everyone. I didn't want to poison anyone; never meant to._

_In the most heart-wrenching fashion, he started screaming._

_It happened because we were in front of a store, the kind that was brick with street lamps outside, all smashed, the urban decay of 70's grunge scene, the windows punctured like winter lakes in Russia. _

_Because he could still see, he kept right on screaming. His ruined eyes, no matter how ruined they were, still saw something far more wretched._

_The screaming wouldn't stop, and I knew why, knew the cause for it._

_He had seen his reflection. _

_Scars that held no-one's loving._

_**Oh my fucking God, what have you done to me Rukia? Oh my God! My God! **_

_I tried to apologize, the words catching in my throat, refusing to come out. It was my fault, how could I be so stupid? I was young, why couldn't the world forgive me?_

_Then cold, dead fingers slipped around my throat, tightened into a vice-like grip, roughly hauling me onto my feet. _

_**Rukia, what have you fucking done to me?**_

And that's when I woke up.

That part was where I always fucking woke up.

I pressed a clammy hand to my forehead, waves of dreadful panic making my body tremble. I felt shot, my insides threatening to shatter.

There was no use denying my insanity anymore. I was being pulled down into stentorian darkness, someone had chained bricks to my ankles, thrown me into the ocean. Dragged me into a cell and smashed the lock.

Shaking, shivering, I curled into a ball, pulled the covers over me.

It didn't help; I didn't feel safe, at all.

I knew the monsters weren't outside, weren't lying in the shadows, sitting on their haunches, waiting to spring. I knew those monsters were inside of me. _When will the truth out?_

I wondered what time it was, but it was an idle thought, for I knew it didn't matter. Time was constant, it would always go on without me. The minutes would trickle by, the hours would stretch ahead as I lay here, eyes unseeing. They would find me, perhaps days from now, and say, _poor little girl, something in her finally broke_.

I pulled off the blankets, looked at the clock. It was 3:00, A.M. The windows were dark, I could see out onto the empty streets, the firefly lights of distant houses, the ghosting, pale foliage of the cherry trees.

The air chilled me so I sat up, brought my knees to my chin. My breath fanned out in short bursts, warmth coming, then receding. I ran trembling fingers through my hair, feeling the tangled and mussed locks. I felt the soft skin of my face, my nose, my eyelids, my lips.

I could've laid back down, surrendered myself to restless sleep, woken up wishing for drugs, for liquor, for a lover; anything hard and fiery to drown out the devil in me.

But I couldn't afford to bow down now.

This was going to be the battle for my life, and no matter how much I tried to avoid it, I knew I either fought, won, and lived, or surrendered, lost and died.

* * *

Ichigo showed up on time.

I thanked the deity that kept watch over orange-haired hooligans.

He arrived, a reluctant air apparent around him with the way he dragged his feet and let his shoulders drop when he saw me. Ichigo slung his book-bag onto my desk, then straightened, stretching to his full height. I didn't realize he was so tall before. Again, my to-do list: purchase in-soles/get stripper heels welded to my feet.

"How long have you been here?"

I looked down at the notes in my hand, continued to write on the chalkboard, "Around twenty minutes."

"Damn girl, how can you get up so early?"

"Couldn't sleep." My lashes fell, veiling my eyes.

"What are you, an insomniac?"

"Sure."

Ichigo ignored my response, bluntly grabbing the notebook from my hand. He flipped it open, scouring the lines of kanji and hiragana, letters that looked like weeping flowers and leaves.

"You're writing down the wrong lesson plan."

I let the chalk drop from my hand, slumping against the chalkboard.

"Are you screwing with me?" I muttered, resting my forehead on my sleeve.

"No."

I paused, then grabbed the book from him, scanning the pages. I was horrified when I found that he was right.

"Shit…" I exhaled, turning to look dismally at the chalkboard that was full of my scribbling.

"Sit down or something, I'll fix it."

I looked at him in disbelief.

He shrugged.

"I can reach higher than you to erase everything. Besides, it's kinda impressive how you managed to write up there. Did you use a chair or something?"

I chucked the notebook at him, satisfied when it left an angry red imprint on his left cheek. He rubbed his injury, glaring balefully at me.

"Be back in five," I smiled before winking and flouncing out the door.

* * *

The bathroom was quiet and dark in the early hours of the morning. The lights flickered on as I stepped in, the aquamarine tiles semi-dry, the marble walls with their swirled colors like toothpaste. I could smell the sharp, lemony tang of the anti-bacterial chemicals the janitor had used.

I walked over to the counter, gazed at myself in the mirror under harsh, bright lights. Telltale signs of my sleepless night were present; dark eye circles, the redness of my eyes, the weary frown on my lips.

"Rukia, you look like shit," I said, matter-of-factly, to myself. My voice echoed hollowly off the walls. I was alone.

I turned the faucet on, listening to the pipes hum to life. Gingerly dipping a fingertip into the water, I waited until it warmed to a temperature that wouldn't cause me to contract hypothermia upon contact. I cupped my hands, let the water fill them, then splashed my face carefully, not wanting to emerge looking like I had been bathing a cat.

Shit, I still felt tired. I lowered my eyes from the mirror, not wanting to see my reflection. The dull, lifeless husk of my former self. It was beginning to take a toll on me, pretending to be happy in front of Hisana and everyone. When I was impossibly alone and cornered, the walls fell. I was crumbling, decaying from the inside; signs of the destruction were starting to show.

I wrung my hands, walked to the hand-dryer.

_Press and receive bacon._

_

* * *

_

When I came back, Ichigo was done with the notes. He was lounging in my seat, playing with the key-chains on my book-bag.

"Don't touch that!" I protested, glaring at him. At this point, I didn't care if he could see my red-rimmed eyes, eyes like a coke addict.

"You look like a coke addict."

_Damn him._

"Screw you."

"What, you don't swear or something?"

"No, I don't…do you, _or something?" _

"Hey, don't make fun of how I talk!"

"Why not?"

"Who makes fun of people for something like that?"

"That's true—considering you have the IQ of a crayon, there are plenty of things about you that I could make fun of."

He stood up, my detached key-chain in hand, the innocent figurine of a plush bunny swinging from his fingers.

I bit back an undignified gasp, my eyes narrowing.

"Give me back Chappy!"

"Oh, so this _thing_ has a name?"

"It's not just a _thing_, it's a rabbit," I growled, approaching Ichigo. I darted at him, squeaked when I nearly lost my balance. Damn bastard was fast.

He leaned down, jerking the toy above my head as if he were playing with a cat. His grin was overwhelmingly bright; I hadn't seen him this happy since—well, since I'd ever seen him. This kid's smile was packing close to ten thousand mega-watts that could power the entire city of Las Vegas.

It was obnoxious.

It was stupid.

It made me mad; especially since he was taunting me with my favorite plush decoration in the form of my favorite animal.

But I was happy.

I didn't know why it felt so nice, with just the two of us in the classroom, being silly and immature and goddamn young. It made me forget about how tired I was [of everything, really] and it melted away the sadness clinging to my bones.

I was circling him, jumping frantically; _anything_ to get Chappy back. After a few well-aimed kicks at his shin, I managed to reduce him to his knees. Deftly, I covered his eyes, ignoring his shouts, swiftly grabbing back what was mine. I jumped away, victorious.

"Victory is mine!" I crowed, whirling around in happy circles, clutching Chappy to my chest. I planted a chaste kiss on the top of its furry, pink head [oh yes, it was pink] and re-latched it onto my book-bag strap.

Ichigo watched me, dumbstruck.

"What's the matter boy, ever seen a girl re-unite with her rabbit before?" I asked crossly, planting my hands on my hips and cocking my head, watching him through narrowed eyes.

"I've never seen you so…animated before."

Although I didn't show it, his words jolted me. It made me wonder how much I had really changed.

I didn't really know what to do, how to act in front of this kid that seemed to see right through my facades. I settled for a small frown.

"Who would be happy around someone like you, you idiot?"

He smirked, "I never said you looked happy…are you?"

I blushed, annoyed that he was drawing different contexts from my words. I jerked my head away from him, looked behind my shoulder to the hallway. Rows of dented, beige lockers.

My glance darted back to Ichigo, who was standing up slowly, massaging his leg.

He ignored my silence, stumbling past me to retrieve his books and bag off of my desk.

"Don't trust you," he grunted, hefting his belongings over one shoulder, forearm flexing as he tightened his grip on his textbooks. The way he angled his body away from me made me laugh; he looked so damn protective of his scholarly possessions. He rotated his entire body to give me a calculating stare.

"What's so funny, midget?"

"Do you really not trust me that much?" I asked, leaning against my now-empty desk, hiding a small smile with my hand. "You look like a nomad with all of that stuff you're carrying."

"Except nomads were barbaric looking…you know, they wore animal pelts and stuff? Necklaces from bear claws, shark teeth, snakeskin belts—that kind of a deal. Hell, they're still around…herding goats and shit."

"Shark teeth? Goats?" I sighed, still smiling at his naivety. I hopped onto my desk, dangling my navy-stocking-clad legs, "You are certainly a boy with a creative imagination, Ichigo."

"Don't say my name with an annoying tone like that," he grumbled. He had situated himself in his desk, leaning his head against a propped hand, looking over a small book.

"Eee-chii-go…" I drawled, swinging my legs back and forth.

"Brat."

"Hmph."

The classroom was silent for a several moments. I stared up at the ceiling, idly wondering if you could play connect-the-dots with the patterns. I looked at the clock, watched the second hand wind itself around its axis like a red snake.

Time was constant, and I felt its pressure even then, in that quiet classroom with a quiet Ichigo, quiet minutes of my life melting away. I didn't feel quite as nervous as yesterday, being around the orange-haired boy and all. I was getting used to him, to his strange, exotic feel. He was different, vastly different; he carried an air of experience and dignity around him. Despite his indolent attitude, I still remembered the fire and vivacity ringing through every note he played on that piano.

I could tell that Ichigo Kurosaki, piano prodigy and high school rebel extraordinaire, was accustomed to great and grand things.

I closed my eyes, picturing him on the balmy beaches of Burma. Maybe wearing a rich, red longyi, the fabric tattooed with brilliant gold, adorned with pearls, gold beads, sea-shells. He'd be playing a piano on the beach, and everyone in the streets would be saying to one another, "There's a boy playing a piano on the beach."

He'd sit there, the tide washing in underneath the pedals, rows of frothy, beaten-white spume that would roll in and lay at his feet like panting dogs.

Or maybe he'd be in England, Parliament and Old Ben visible through gothic windows. The cast-iron structure of the walls around him spiraling upward into a Michelangelo sky filled with acrylic cherubs and melted foil stars.

I directed my gaze to Ichigo, shyly memorizing the handsome lines of his face. I saw the strong jaw, the sharp cliff of his nose. The way his lips were an unyielding line, but still soft enough for smiling and laughing. Everything was stubborn and resilient about Ichigo.

There was the strong curve of his eyebrows shadowing the poignant, cutting glare of his eyes.

Then there was his stubborn, orange hair. And his trademark scowl.

I felt myself irrevocably drawn to Ichigo, for reasons I still could not put logic to, and for reasons that made me grit my teeth in frustration. Never in my life had I ever met someone so mysterious, so interesting.

He was the first person I couldn't read. Everyone else were like open books [albeit, some were better left to be notebooks] but he was different.

I still remembered the first day he had walked in, his voice with that stupid drawl and his loping walk. I remembered how he had sat down behind me and asked for the pencil sharpener. Kyoraku had since then taken a liking to the boy [provided that he didn't interrupt his lectures with smart-aleck overtures] and Ichigo even talked him into coming to his concert. [The city hall, 2:00 P.M, sharp.]

The only solid point that drew me to him was the fact that I was a musician as well.

A singer.

Acapella, a darling that pulled stars from the skies.

My band and I had been unstoppable last year, the tour had been tiring, but amazing.

It made me reel thinking about it.

_I had travelled with my brother, Byakuya, who had established himself as my manager, and the band. Which was full of interesting people, to say the least._

_Abarai Renji, childhood friend, on guitar, Hinamori Momo on bass, Shuuhei Hisagi on drums. _

_Luce, aka, Rukia Kuchiki, on vocals._

_We were the ultimate dream team, calling ourselves Lumière. It was the French term for light; Momo and I had been toying around with Paris tourist brochures when we saw it._

_Being female and inevitably drawn to anything that sparkled or glittered, we took an immediate liking to the name. Byakuya had only nodded curtly while the other two band members who possessed Y alleles had swallowed their complaints and went along with it. _

_During the last leg of our tour in the United States, we had made commotion at the Peppermint Lounge in New York, playing our way down the coastal-line to Ramshead, Maryland. It was a memorable concert hall, filled with red lights, tacky statues of lions, serpents, half-naked women. _

_Los Angeles, however, was the city that captured my heart._

_There was Lingerie, the heartland of the punk scene, where Renji gotten so hammered he almost went home with a gay man. [Of course, we were there without Byakuya's knowledge—it was a night full of deceit and bribery.] _

_Then Avalon, with its rich, black lacquered bar tops gleaming underneath the pulsing of lights, the dancing masses of people. Everyone trying to remember how to breathe, not remembering how they had gotten their hands on the person in front of them. _

_Our last night in the city of angels, I remembered being at the Sunset Junction of Los Angeles. The after party was full of cheap beer, shady drugs, and memorable people. [Hisagi still insists that he has everyone's numbers, 'especially Double D Debbie,' he'd always reiterate.]_

_Of course, Byakuya had made sure to steer me clear of the party's, ah, immoral delights, but I still managed to make the best of the night, sitting on the steps of the trailer. I had been snugly wrapped in a wool blanket, sipping oolong tea from a bowl since Renji was so goddamn lazy he didn't do his shift of dishes. _

_The late hours made up for what I had missed. That night was a night that people lived for._

_You could see the immense, sprawling, cold-blue disc of the sky, the vivid, dusted swirls of stars and planets, satellites and planes. The sun had set so well that evening, burning a brilliant, magnolia haze into the horizon, outlining the breezy heads of palm trees, jagged buildings, telephone lines. The urban landscape, set against blooming watercolors._

I slipped off the desk, leaning against the wall, feeling it cool and solid behind my head. I exhaled, let out all of the breaths I had been holding while re-living these fantastic memories. They were the only happy ones I had left, and they stood out in stark contrast to everything that had gone to shit afterwards.

I looked across the room to Ichigo. He was still reading, but I felt like trying anyway.

"Ichigo, have you ever been to Los Angeles?"

He didn't answer me at first.

He turned a page in his book, the paper crisp and white, crackling underneath his fingertips.

"Yeah, plenty of times. Why?"

I paused, wondering if it'd be worth it to share my not-so-little secret with him; that I was living two lives. That I was Luce of Lumière, the vocalist whose voice was like the light.

Marvelous, blinding, pure ecstasy.

[ Just being modest here, honestly.]

Speaking of honesty, I was still puzzled by why I had never heard of Ichigo, despite his piano prowess. With Byakuya as my manager, we had quickly set up connections, [although we had to endure critics who accused us of piggy-backing our way to fame on the Kuchiki name]. It was odd that we had never been invited to one of Ichigo's venues before.

Also, if you had an inkling of talent, you would know who Byakuya Kuchiki was. Which meant that Ichigo, in all of his Shakespeare reading glor—_wait_, he's reading Shakespeare?

I nearly crab-walked over, my curiosity was piqued to such an immense level.

"Much Ado About Nothing?" I observed, my head twisted at an impressive angle to read the title.

Another cold flip of the page.

"Got a problem with it?"

"No…I just imagined you'd go for the more…melodramatic ones. Like Julius Caesar or something."

"Read that one a million times."

"Et tu, Brute?"

He snapped his book close, looking at me curtly.

I leaned away, just then aware of my dangerously close proximity to his hands, which were itching to throw the book at me.

"Do you mind not interrupting the only time I ever get to read?"

I held my hands up in a defensive gesture, trying to placate the orange-haired boy, "Sorry! Ahh, I just wanted to ask you something though…"

I tapped my fingers on the desk legs, deliberating.

_How to begin this_…

"Umm…Ichigo, do you know who Byakuya Kuchiki is?"

He snorted, rolling his eyes, "Of course I do! Owner of practically every company in the entertainment slash music industry! I'd have to be from outer space or something if I—scratch that, since he probably owns NASA or something, I'd have to be, a…a fucking lobster to not know who Byakuya Kuchiki is!"

I raised an eyebrow in speculation, "A lobster?"

"Shut up, my analogies suck."

That somehow brightened up my day.

I shook my head, trying to get back on track, "Anyway, that doesn't matter, but…d-do you know who I am?"

He stared at me.

"As in your name?"

There was a long, awkward pause.

I could literally feel the annoyance boiling, bubbling, seething, frothing, _spuming_ out of me. I was Vesuvius, and he was going to die a most unpleasant death.

I erupted, "You don't even know my name?"

He answered back with equal ferocity, "How am I supposed to know?"

"Oh, I don't know, you could've been listening when Kisuke-san drew my fucking name out of his hat?"

"Ah-ha! So you do swear!"

"That's totally beside the point, you idiot! Because my _name_ is Rukia fucking _Kuchiki_!"

No sooner than did the last word slip out of my mouth did Ichigo shut up. His lips clamped shut, tightening into a thin line. His face turned pale.

Which stood out in hilarious contrast to his tropical-hued hair, but I felt that this was not the time to point out such things of aesthetical quality to the distraught fellow.

"Then, that means…"

My eyes widened; from my kneeling place beside his desk, I tightened my hands into fists, clutching at the fabric of my skirt. I could feel my veins constricting, _oh, my blood pressure, oh _God, _why had I done this to myself? _Had he figured it all out? Maybe it wasn't such a great thing if he knew that I wa—

"Then that means you know Lumière? The band?"

I was tempted to slap both of my palms to my face. At the same time, I felt oddly light-headed with relief.

"_Yes! _I _know_ Lumière!" I hissed. Ichigo didn't even flinch, but rather, looked at me with eyes filled with, dare I say it, admiration.

"They're fantastic, really—solid vocals, amazing bassist. The drummer's pretty good for someone playing as long as he has. I thought they would suck, since I figured they were like every band out there that started out with big-name connections. I never got a chance to ever meet them in person when I heard them down in Los Angeles; pity, really. I wanted to snag the singer's number. She's a pretty little thing."

Deep down inside, I bristled at being defined as a sexual object. [I was forced to wear disguises for the band's public appearances, hence Ichigo's apparent ignorance. Something about preserving as normal a teenage life as possible, Byakuya had said.]

But, I smiled shyly when I heard his positive review of our music. We prided ourselves on our passion for music and hard work, which often exceeded bands that were many years our seniors. Our dedication was something that pulled us together despite our severely mismatched personalities.

"How are they in person?" he inquired.

"Well, they're, um, interesting," I began, unsure of what to say. What could one say about one's self? Would it be okay to give him a glowing review of Luce's singing voice? About how she was the queen of hearts, her voice a terrible, beautiful despair that pierced the heart of every person who heard her?

Someone cleared his throat.

We both turned towards the doorway. It was Kisuke-san.

"Good morning, Rukia-chan," he smiled brightly, far too chipper for the morning. I remembered stumbling in an hour earlier, wanting to inhumanely kill the first living thing I saw, albeit it plant or animal life.

He laid his suitcase on the table up front, adjusting his coffee-colored tie. He nodded at Ichigo, "Glad to see you here as well, Kurosaki. I was afraid you might have, ah…attended to one of your personal businesses once more."

There were two precise clicks as Urahara opened the black suitcase, pulling out a ballot. He beckoned us forward with an index finger.

"I know it's early for this, but, we need to decide on what we're doing for the festival this year."

"Festival?" Ichigo asked, shoving his hands in his pockets. His lanky frame towered beside me.

I quickly explained, "Every year, we hold a festival at this school to raise money for cancer organizations. It's popular with a lot of schools across Japan; our principal's a huge fan. Which is kinda stupid. He usually rewards the class that makes the most money with something pointless, like a field day."

Kisuke-san looked up, a grin on his face, "Now, now, Rukia-chan, you shouldn't call Zaraki-san stupid."

I pointed at the lockers outside shamelessly, "Look at the freakin' lockers, Kisuke-san! There are so many dents that some of the lockers can't even be used! The library looks like something an _emo_ kid would draw! The lights in this hallway are always dim because he doesn't care squat about budgeting, and he spends it all on stupid events, like the talent show and the sword fights!"

"Sword fights?" Ichigo looked amused. I just wanted to smack him across the face.

"_Yes! _Sword fights! What kind of a school has flippin' _sword fights_ every month?"

"I think a majority of the martial artists here would prefer if you called them kendo matches, Rukia-chan," Urahara chided me, prodding me with the ballot. I took hold of the clipboard grudgingly, sure that I would have to disinfect my hands with acid afterwards. Just a quick nip down to the chemistry labs and—

"Kendo's for pansies," Ichigo remarked, his arms crossing over his chest. He looked at Urahara levelly, "If you ask me, Aikido's where it's at."

Urahara's thin, pale lips quirked up at Ichigo's statement.

"Ahh, aikido. How long have you been practicing?"

"Since I was seven."

I wanted to roll my eyes at the smugness in Ichigo's voice.

"Well then! Have you ever wielded a sword before, Kurosaki?"

"No…not really."

"Would you like to give it a try?"

Ichigo deliberated for a moment, looking straight into Urahara's watery grey eyes. I felt as if I was witnessing a moment of epic proportions. Something that would change the course of all of our lives. Which, quite frankly, sounded absolutely absurd, but considering the path my life had taken lately, I needed a change—a chance to move on from my past.

"Yeah…when do we train?"

"After school. Maybe around three or four hours."

"Every day?"

Ichigo yelped as Urahara flicked his fan out of his sleeve, hitting him solidly on the crown of his head.

"Agh! What was that for? Where'd you even get tha—"

"_Of course_ we're going to be training every day! What do you think this is, a kiddie camp?"

Urahara's complexion changed, narrowing into something far from playful. His eyes were dangerous, his voice was sharp.

"You better be prepared."

"Sure," Ichigo murmured, massaging his head gingerly.

Urahara sighed good-naturedly, studying Ichigo with a despairing look. Then, breaking the tension in the air, he whipped around, winking at me, "Better get on that ballot…make sure you get down everyone's ideas for what we can do this year. I want to get the final decisions made as soon as possible!"

He stowed away his fan in his sleeve, snapped his suitcase shut, leaning it upright with his hands. He gazed at Ichigo, "And I trust I will see you after school, Kurosaki?"

Ichigo smiled, ambition burning a brilliant fire in his eyes, stretching his hand out, "Yeah…Kisuke-san."

A smile spread on Kisuke's face as well.

The two shook hands, and all the while, I stood there, feeling as if something in the universe had clicked into place. The cogs and gears of an immense clock were shifting; time was starting to move for me.

* * *

Last A/N: Regarding honorifics...I kinda personalized it, I think, since -san is usually attached to the person's last name, right? [Correct me if I'm wrong, please!] But still, I felt Urahara-san or Kyoraku-san or Kenpachi-san sounded really odd, so I decided to stick it to the first name. Maybe I'm just being paranoid. :|

P.S. What did you think of this chapter's length? Was it too long? Leave some feedback :)


	6. Chapter 6: Fear

A/N: Sorry for the late update...my life has been really stressful, since I've decided that I want to try to become a K-Pop trainee. I know, the best thing ever, right? Your fanfic author goes to dedicate herself to dancing and singing and learning Mandarin Chinese/Korean...all with possible risk that she doesn't make it, ever. Whatever; you're only young for so long, so I've got to take my chances.

So, I might not post as frequently. I'll try to once every week, but wish me luck when I audition next June! :)

Sorry for the lackluster writing in this chapter; writer's block. I've been reading a lot more, so hopefully the next chapter will be more fluid!

6

* * *

The air was stifling hot as I walked across the bridge. The breeze from passing cars did nothing to alleviate my suffering. Everywhere I looked, heat waves simmered and sifted about the ground in lazy, undulating waves. I clenched my hand around the piece of paper that held Urahara's address, not caring if it would get clammy with my sweat. It was a damn hot day.

I stopped at an intersection. Discarded gum wrappers, dropped yen, stamped-out cigarettes were scattered on the brick pathway. Bikes hummed past me, cars raised choked swirls of dust, but aside from these noises, it was eerily quiet. Every dog seemed to be sprawled underneath his porch, tongue lolling out like shoelaces, panting breathlessly and drawing deep breaths into his coal-shuttle lungs. Even the flies were sedated underneath the heavy atmosphere, buzzing drunkenly about in lazy gyrations.

The walk-signal flashed green, I looked both ways and crossed. Once safe on the other side, I pulled out the scrap of paper and squinted at it, leaning against a street sign.

_Furin Hall, Karakura Town_. _Yay! _

I looked at the last word crossly; sometimes I forgot that Kisuke-san had the mentality of a hyperactive eight year old girl.

There was no dojo; not even anything that suggested anything of a martial nature. What I saw in front of me was a simple convenience store. The walls were a fair, milky beige, laid in wooden frames of dark, burnished mahogany. Sunlight gleamed dully off the dark blue shingles of the roof. A weather vane and television satellite sprouted from the side of the store. The lawn was modestly kept, neither too short, or tall, nor too green or too yellow. In dark, feathery strokes, the sign situated on the front of the store proclaimed that this, indeed, was Urahara Kisuke's store. I looked at the piece of paper in despair, glanced back at the street sign I had passed. Was this really the place where I was going to train?

I swallowed thickly, feeling sweat trickling down the sides of my face. The sun's hot rays pressed down on me mercilessly. My hair was clinging to my neck, I felt like a rather confused cat that had just clambered out of a toilet. [Again; my stupid analogies. Don't laugh.]

My fingers crumpled up the paper, slipped it back into the pocket of my sand-colored cargo pants. I glanced around the side, there was a van there, the type that seemed like it could hold a few bodies or two. It was like a scene out of a horror movie; unsuspecting, ill-fated high school student with the IQ of a carrot stumbles upon a mysterious place and ignores all instincts, nonchalantly wandering in to meet his fate. Except I didn't have the IQ of a carrot [despite what my hair color would suggest], and I wasn't all that unsuspecting. Already, my eyes were darting around, noting escape paths, possible trick doors, miscellaneous stai—

"Kurosaki, what are you doing standing out there gaping around my place like that?"

Oh please. Was I really that obvious? Kisuke-san was leaning out of the front doorway, looking at me expectantly.

"Uhh."

Intelligent, Ichigo.

I wiped my sweaty palms on my t-shirt, which was a miserable shade of black. At least he wouldn't notice how much I had sweat walking all the way over he—

"Come on in already, you're late! Seven point three minutes, to be exact!"

I stumbled my way up the cobble stone walkway, trying to convert the time he had listed into something comprehensible. Seven and a twentieth minutes? Stupid, crazy man, he should just stick to teaching literature.

I shuffled off my shoes, my bare feet sliding on the cool, plywood floor, the color of sun-bronzed beaches. Walking down the hallway, I noticed the shelves of merchandise, brightly colored boxes of candy, banners and streamers hanging from the walls, barrels filled with stuffed animals and marbles. Further into the store, food and medicinal herbs became more prevalent, along with random items, such as bolts of black fabric and umbrellas.

Urahara walked behind the counter, dressed in what I could only describe as fairly ratty 'man-pris' and a matching bathrobe. Granted, my fashion vocabulary wasn't that impressive, but I think I got it down pretty well. Oh wait; that clacking noise as he's walking around…oh, wonderful. He's wearing heels, too. Except they weren't really heels…more like sandals.

The kind that you'd find geishas wearing, it's a beauty thing, apparently. Oh shit, is Urahara gay or something? Why would he be worrying about his posture or something stupid like that? I bet he sleeps with a rock underneath his head, that's a geisha thing, too. That explains his hat; wouldn't want his complexion to be anything but fair, now would we? Maybe he's even got a face powdering routine down pat.

Ha ha, get it? I'm good at puns at least. Maybe I should put that down on my resume; _only redeeming quality as a human being: good at puns. _

I didn't notice the little girl around me until she tapped my elbow. I turned around, almost knocking her down. She was so small; even smaller than Rukia. Which I considered to be an impressive feat.

"Um," she began, her voice weak and brittle, like a dry field. I imagined she would light on fire if I so much as looked at her. "Would you like some tea?"

"Uh."

And thus completed the second sentence of my morning. A great start, Ichigo, great start. I was now sure that no amount of sucking up to Urahara could convince him that I was capable of using three syllable, or, heavens forbid, four syllable words.

"Thank you, but we won't be needing anything, Ururu."

She nodded, then disappeared soundlessly.

"Come right this way," his chipper call floated to me from across the room. There was metallic clinking and clanking as he emptied his cash register, sifted through the coins, and punched in something on the machine. Then, he took his hat from a peg on the wall, plopping it on his head solidly. Urahara's eyes were deep-set, dark in the shadows of his silvery-blonde bangs.

He turned, slid open the door that was behind him, and disappeared out of sight. I shifted uneasily, staring at the annealed glass of the folding door.

The hinges sighed as the thick wooden frame slid open, "Are you coming or not?"

I followed him.

The place was massive. Below my feet, the wooden floor the dojo was rubbery; soft even. I applied pressure with one of my toes, delighting in the spongy feel. The four walls were painted an unusual sky-blue color, bristling with assortments of weapons. Urahara lifted a modest looking cane off of the wall. It was made out of bamboo, kept in wonderful condition, for it gleamed under the bright fluorescent lights.

"A cane?" I asked dubiously, approaching him to take a closer look at it. Suddenly, Urahara whipped around, and I barely had to time to dodge the sharp dagger protruding from the cane's bottom. I pitched my weight backward, swerving narrowly as he charged me. I swung my leg low, trying to catch him off guard, but he seemed to ignore it, merely stepping over my foot and slinging the cane about in eye-blurring figure-eights.

All of my training kicked in then; muscle memory, reflexes, motions.

Now were away, engaged in some kind of a dance, something feral and as old as time itself. Adrenaline surging through my veins, I ducked, weaved, my back to the wall filled with weaponry. Without a backwards glance, I took hold of a sheathed sword, racking it off the wall hurriedly as Urahara's dagger-cane darted, striking for my throat.

"Take it easy, are you trying to kill me," I managed to grunt, when his blade collided with the tough, black leather, biting into the fabric. The shock of the impact rang through my arms, brought me to my knees, and I found myself awestruck at Urahara's strength. His skills belied his casual, disheveled appearance; looking into his eyes, I saw danger gleaming in each iris, and I found, also, the unsettling reflection of my fear.

"Take your time, Kurosaki—relax," he said, his voice low, reprimanding. He pressed harder, I felt my arm muscles straining to hold him off.

"You're too tense. Your grip on this scabbard is awfully tight; are you afraid? Tell me, Kurosaki…why are you afraid? Is it because you're afraid of getting cut? Is it because you're afraid I'll kill you? Are you afraid of death?"

He could feel my weakness, he was gauging me right now with those eyes, and that's what made me scared of him even more.

"Don't look at me like that, Ichigo, it's amazing how much fear I can sense off of you right now. That look in your eyes is not of one who is looking to fight; it is someone who is looking for a way out. A way to run."

Worse than the blade trembling between us, worse than the murderous light in his eyes—the intelligence of this man made me tremble. Every action I made was something he was tallying in his mind, every moment I let down my guard, he could sense it.

But it seemed he had enough of tasting my fear, sampling my mind, for Kisuke-san backed off, snapping the cane with his wrist to make the dagger retract back into its confines. I stayed where I was, kneeling on the floor, not quite feeling my arms, light-headed from coming down my adrenaline rush.

"You say you've trained in aikido. Is this really all you've got?"

There was silence. I bowed my head, unwilling to look into his eyes.

"We've got a long way to go, Kurosaki."

I studied the oak floor beneath my hands, the scars and scratches and rivulets caused by the countless spars there had been at this dojo. I felt incredibly young.

"Look at me, Kurosaki Ichigo!"

Unwillingly, I met his gaze. This time, there wasn't as much hostility in those eyes. Instead, a quiet, solid determination burned within them.

He nodded at the sword in my hands, "Pick it up. Unsheathe it."

I did as I was told, drawing the blade, hearing the metallic scrap of steel against leather. Kisuke-san approached me, shaking his head, "This is completely wrong. The way you're holding it is completely wrong. There is nothing but fear reflected in this way you hold your sword." His tone was dry, scathing.

His large hand covered mine, angled the sword so that it pointed at the floor.

"When you dodge," he nudged me to the side, his wiry frame towering over mine, "you're afraid of getting killed. When you attack," his arm snapped up, bringing both of our hands and sword point forward, "you're afraid of killing someone. Even when you try to protect someone," Urahara brought the sword resting upright before us, "you're afraid of letting them die. Yes, your sword speaks to me only of absurd fear."He shook his head. I could smell his stale breath, like alcohol, something bitter, like coffee.

" What's necessary in a fight isn't fear. Nothing can be born of that."

He stepped away from me, removing the sword from my grip. He wielded it with ease, "When you dodge, you must think, "I won't let them cut me."" The blade danced and flickered about.

"If you protect someone, you must think, "I won't let them die.""

The sword thrummed through the air.

"If you attack, "I will kill them.""

With the slick speed of an adder, Urahara brought the weapon around in a shining arc of light; his motions were so fast, they all blurred together. He stopped, cast a side-long glance at me, "Well, can't you see the resolve to kill you in my sword?"

I nodded, throat dry.

He took the scabbard from me, sheathed the sword. "That is the type of resolve you must fight with. The next time we spar, Kurosaki Ichigo, you must be prepared to kill me." He handed me back the sword.

"What kind of a dojo is this, where the students kill the teacher?" I muttered, raking my hands through my hair, taking the sword back. It felt heavy in my hands. I felt uncomfortable, carrying something meant for killing. Something meant to be bloodstained.

Urahara gave a wry chuckle, tapping his cane on the floor, "I didn't mean it quite so literally, Kurosaki."

I rolled my eyes.

"So is this really going to be my sword?" I held up the black weapon, the hilt shaped like a Swastika. Which really didn't help any of my impressions of the sword in the first place.

"Yup."  
"Why? Can't I just pick something else up? I just grabbed this because this was the closest thing that could _save_ me from _dying_!"

"Exactly! This is the weapon you chose in your most dire moment, Kurosaki-kun!"

"Ugh, what is with that casual suffix! Am I really just a little kid to you? Besides, it doesn't make sense that I should have a sword like this. Your logic doesn't justify anything at all!"

Urahara paused, looking at the ceiling reflectively.

"You could say that, Ichigo. But then again, I think you look kinda cool with that sword!"

I sighed in exasperation. Gone was the menacing Kisuke-san I had fought. Here was just, well, a man in his hat and clogs.

I was beginning to wonder if everyone in this town was schizophrenic or something.

* * *

Keigo Asano was standing at a threateningly close distance from me, his beady eyes gleaming down at me. "Are you sure you don't want to go on a date, Rukia-chan?"

"Keigo, would you sit down?" I hissed, using both arms in vain to push him down into his seat.

"Oh, my ice princess, it makes me so happy that you're touching m—" The rest of his sentence was garbled, for I had succeeded in shoving the black-board eraser down his throat. The classroom was chaotic; Kisuke-san had yet to arrive.

I looked around; Ichigo was leaning back in his chair, listening to his iPod. His fingers tapped along to the music on the desk.

I frowned at his nonchalance.

The raucous noise of teenagers trying to stuff each others' faces with the latest school gossip was making me nauseous.

I wanted to punt a kitten.

Keigo's grubby fingers were clutching at my blouse again, "Rukia-chan, you're so beautiful, like an ice sculpture…let me hold y—"

This time, I brained him with my clipboard, which I seemed to be carrying around a lot these days. Momo gasped behind me, and I glared at her, "So you would prefer that I get sexually molested by this freak?"

"That would be interesting to watch."

Ichigo had apparently come out of his anti-social mode. He twirled his headphone cord around his black iPod, tucking it into his bag. Then, he crossed his arms, looking around the classroom.

"We should probably bring up that charity event Urahara was talking about yesterday."

I sighed, rubbing at my temple, while Momo squealed in excitement.

"Rukia, is it really time for Relay again?"

"Relay?"

"Another name for the thing," I explained, eyes closed and trying to think of rainbows…unicorns…rabbits. My blood pressure was already rising exponentially by thinking of what was to come; all the planning that had to be made, all the people that had to be involved. I did not want to keep track of some twenty pubescent girls and boys who had tendencies to smoke illegal substances and practice the art of rejecting abstinence.

Ichigo rolled out of his desk, [yes, really, that was the only way I could describe it, his legs were so long and lean] and stood up.

"Come on," his large fist caught hold of my wrist, tugging me along. I was nearly swept off balance, but his hand kept me steady, and we were walking up to the front of the classroom. From this distance, I could smell him. He smelled wonderfully clean; like he had just exercised and then took a shower. I already suspected that he kept his body in, ah, _excellent _condition, what with the glazed looks girls threw him in the hallways and the way guys tensed up in his presence. Not that I noticed, anyway. His grip was strong; expected of a pianist's fingers.

"Everyone, shut up."

His brusque statement, uttered at an 'indoor voice' decibel, was powerfully effective. The room was quiet. As clichés put it, you could hear a pin drop.

"Now, we've got something coming up…it's called Relay?" he shot me a quizzical look. I mouthed, _Relay for Life_, painfully aware that his hand was still on mine.

"Relay for Life. Yeah. Uh, we all know what that is, right?"

There was nodding from around the classroom, a few of the girl inched forward in their seats. They were looking at Ichigo with stares that could only be described as ravenous. The vibes they were giving off were overwhelming; I felt like I was being crushed. A diver underwater at twenty thousand feet, the pressure smashing her bone structure, popping her veins like bubble-wrap. Ahh, I've been quite fond of grotesque descriptions lately.

"Rukia, want to take it from here?"

"Oh good, you've remember my name," I muttered, as his hand dropped from mine. I wanted it back. It had felt so nice and warm.

"So, we've got to figure out our theme. Last year sucked because we let Keigo have his way…" I directed the boy in question with a scathing glare.

"_Maid _costumes, Rukia, _maid costumes! _No way we could've gone around that!" he hissed in protest.

I rolled my eyes, I saw Ichigo's mouth quirk up slightly. With an elbow, I jabbed him lightly.

"Any ideas?" I asked.

People looked at miscellaneous places, trying to appear as if they were in deep thought. I saw one kid look at cleavage of the girl sitting next to him. Yup. _Definitely_ intelligent people in our class.

"Karaoke."

It was Momo who spoke up, her face lit up with a mysterious glow akin to what one could find on a Christmas tree. Which, if you paused to think about it, was slightly unnatural, and somewhat disturbing.

"What?" My own question seemed dumbstruck to me. It was like clone Rukia was talking or something. [God, am I picking up on Ichigo's speaking habits?]

"You know how we have to raise money?"

"Umm, yeah?"

"Well, we could do it by having karaoke."

Still clueless.

"It's cute, Rukia! You dress up as a jukebox and people pay you to sing songs…like human karaoke!"

"You could've just said that in the first place," I grumbled, tapping the clipboard against my thigh in irritation. Through my peripheral vision, I saw Ichigo's lips tilt upward again.

Discontentment and contentment alike were beginning to brew in the homeroom class of Urahara Kisuke. Pretty soon, the whole class was divided; maid café vs. human jukebox. A large percentage, achem, my bad, the entirety of the male population was voting for the idea of the maid café. With Ichigo included, they outnumbered the girls by one. I glared at Ichigo, who was surveying the situation with amusement.

"You better fucking say no," I growled, my eyes fixated on his face. I was desperately conjuring up what voodoo I knew, trying to mentally stick pins into his face. See if he'd flinch or be intimidated by my words. He smirked down at me, leaning down to breathe in my face, "And how are you going to stop me?"

My hand flew up to slap him, but he was quicker; he caught my wrist effectively with his fingers and held them in a vice-like grip.

"Don't even try, sweetheart."

"Pervert."

"I'm a guy, what can I say?"

My eyes narrowed into what I hoped was a glare that emitted the purest, vilest of demonic auras. I guess I must've just looked like a pissed off Chihuahua, because Ichigo just started laughing.

"Fine, compromise," he grinned.

And so, that's how the class decided on running a maid café and a human jukebox at the same time.

"I still don't get it."

"What don't you get?"

"How this whole Relay for Life thing works."

I sighed, set down my sandwich.

It was lunchtime, Ichigo and I were sitting on the rooftop of the school with Momo, Renji and Hisagi. Hisagi had taken an instant liking to Ichigo, something about giving off the tough guy vibe, but Renji had given him a wide berth. Momo wasn't quite comfortable with Ichigo, which was a relief, since it meant she felt it too awkward to blab on for miles about Hitsugaya in his presence.

"Where does everyone get the money?"

"That's why we have sponsors."

"Who are the fucking sponsors?"

Hisagi laughed, Renji grumbled something that sounded like _dumbass_ around his coke straw.

"We go door-to-door the week before asking people to come to the event."

"So how's this human jukebox gonna work? I know the maid café will work like a charm," I threw a piece of limp lettuce at him, "But who's going to be the singer?"

"Rukia!" Momo chirped. Renji coughed, choked. His face was bright red as he spluttered, "We can't fucking do that!"

"Oh, right. Keep her on the down low, sorry."

"Wait, what?"

Hisagi caught Ichigo in a headlock [which was, admittedly, quite a creative way to divert someone's attention], "Don't worry 'bout it!"

I bit into my sandwich, tasted the bland deli turkey meat. You'd think Byakuya could afford to buy proper luncheon meat. But apparently, it all went to fund his immense supply of hair wax, or something like that, with the way he styled his hair constantly.

"It's okay guys, I can do it."

All three of my band members turned to look at me incredulously.

"I don't really mind," I shrugged, "It's for a good cause, right?" And a part of me secretly hoped that Ichigo would finally recognize who I was. What I was.

"Wow, you're starting to actually sound kinda…nice."

I grabbed Renji's coke and emptied it on Ichigo's lap. I smiled sweetly at him, ignoring Renji's indignant complaints and Ichigo's outraged shouts.

"There, ruined it for ya," I stood up and brushed off my skirt.

"Not gonna stay for the whole lunch?" Hisagi looked up at me.

"No. I have other…things to take care of."

They fell quiet, even Renji. Ichigo was too busy wiping off his pants with a wad of tissues to notice the tense atmosphere.

"Can I use your car, Hisagi?"

"Yeah." His eyes were sympathetic.

"Thanks," I turned to leave.

Going down the dark stairwell, smelling the metallic tang of the rusting, chain-link banister, I felt despair creep up on me.

I was going to Hisana's.

She needed me, and that scared me more than I'd ever let on, because it was supposed to be the other way around.


	7. Chapter 7: Lust

A/N: Yay! Some action going on in this chapter :) Oh, and would anyone like to be a beta reader for me? I'm not sure how the whole process goes...would I just e-mail it to you or something? [Haha, I sound like Ichigo] Anyway, here's the chapter, hope it wasn't too late! Let me know how it went...was Ichigo's POV awkward? Any feedback? I suck at writing from guys' POV's T_T

Oh, and the parallel in this chapter would have to be Hisana having spinocerebullar ataxia [yes, 1 Litre of Tears] to my brother having autism...it's a bit dramatic, but, understandably, it has to be for this story.

7

* * *

I lay in my bed as a cat would, sprawled on my side, gently breathing. Internally, I felt myself melting, and it was a most horrible sensation.

"I can't believe I'm going to his house," I grumbled, burying my face into the pillowcase. I knew I wanted to, but I also knew I shouldn't want to.

Shifting onto my back, I let other thoughts drift through my mind, like my visit to Hisana's yesterday. I stared up at the ceiling, a milky, scalloped texture, and thought about things I didn't want to think about.

Like how Hisana had seemed so fragile, like a porcelain doll, so easily breakable. I had thought about smashing all the mirrors in the apartment, all the reflective surfaces so she couldn't see the damage. So she wouldn't start hating herself, start closing herself off to the world. Yet, she already was doing so.

My fingers tightened on the sheets. It was all pointless, wasn't it? The doctors had told her that there was no cure. It was tragic story, something they'd heard and sighed about many times before. It made me mad that they were so casual about it, them uttering their fucking _adeste fideles_; be present, faithful ones. They were mocking us. I knew Byakuya was pissed as fuck about it, too.

We _were_ present, _painfully _present; but nothing was happening.

No miracles were coming.

All I knew was that God had a twisted sense o f humor.

"Look at her cerebellum," the same doctor would always say, pointing at the x-rays, dark and glossy like developing film paper. Dark like the deepest part of the ocean where you looked down and wondered where the ocean floor had gone. This doctor, with silvery hair and a dense head too big for his body, would nod sadly to himself, "It's definitely getting smaller."

Smaller.

Closed off.

Hisana's options in life were now becoming horrifyingly limited.

_Spinocerebellur ataxia._

A fancy name for when the cells in the cerebellum started dying off, which meant all motor motions, such as walking, talking, eating, slowly became difficult and finally impossible for the victim. Ataxia; the degeneration of muscle tissue. In short, a slow, agonizing death. All through this, the sufferer remained completely, mentally intact.

Yet, of all these years the disease has been known, there was still no cure.

It was like being brick-walled into your own damn room, I decided, trying to stop the tears that were threatening to fall. No-one could do anything as each brick was being laid, they could only watch and try not to scream. Maybe say they're sorry, but there were too many things, already, to be sorry about.

But the true story begins after the last brick is laid, the last sunlight blocked out forever. Would we allow ourselves to break as well?

"It's a story of tragedy. It's the final act," I said aloud, trying to brave. "What's going to happen? What are you going…to do."

The last words were mouthed, my voice was no longer with me. It was like I was hoping my audacity, the way I brought myself violently to reality, would shock me into not crying.

But I was wrong; the tears still came.

All the frustration and pain overwhelmed me, filled me to the brim, started to overflow. I felt as if my soul was bleeding out of me. Where these feelings came from, I did not know, but I knew that, in this most twisted way of assurance possible, that I was still alive.

"It's like Kaien all over again," I said again, out loud, to myself. His name was foreign on my tongue, the consonants sharp and bitter. I swallowed painfully, told myself to stop it. I cleared my throat, blew my nose, tried to remember how to breath normally.

I sat up, looking at the window. Muted, grey light was seeping in through the curtain. It was going to be a rainy day, and I had made up my mind that I most definitely did not like the rain. This was hell.

I dangled my legs on the side of the bed, kicking my heels against the covers, wondering what I could wear. I was getting so tired these days, all these sleepless nights. I hadn't done laundry in over a week. Byakuya would be furious, but he was in his own world these days.

_Maybe I should just color-code everything,_ I mused. White for Fridays, Red for Saturdays; Black for Sundays, for all the holy irony. Because God, it seemed, was the fucking Devil himself.

"Rebel rebel, Rukia," I mused, stumbling towards my closet, shucking off my sweat pants. Hisana wore these whenever she was sick. But not now; now she was wearing crisp, toothpaste-green hospital pants that smelled of alcohol and IV drips. I guess I wanted to feel like I was sick, too, the way I wore these to sleep every night ever since we found out. I wanted to share her pain.

I had been devastated—when we found out the reason for her always tripping all the time, how her handwriting was so shaky she couldn't write little messages for me in my lunch box. That's when I had moved out of her apartment; she had requested that I live with Byakuya for the time being. I didn't know. But now that I did now, the truth killed me.

The soles of my feet felt cool, clammy against the wooden floor. The closet hinges creaked, I felt like Pandora, opening a box of secrets; violent secrets. I remembered Hisana would always rifle through this closet, picking out things for me to wear. Frilled dresses, sun-hats blooming with acacia buds, sweet honeysuckle, wisps of delicate Lady's Breath. Lace gloves, silk tights, buckled clogs.

A Victorian romance, Hisana would giggle, we were eight and eighteen then, and she would take my by the hand, whisking us off to a tea-party with stuffed animals. We'd sit around an elaborate table, doilies and china tea-cups set out. It was like the Zodiac, or something, the animals would sit around the table in a ring.

From the rat to the pig.

Except they were missing an ox. Hisana had laughed, her laugh was so elaborate you never quite forgot it, and she had run out of the room. She came back with a disgruntled Byakuya, set him down on the floor.

"We're too old for this," I had grumbled in my eight-year old voice, and Hisana had told me, with her voice-that-Byakuya-loved, "You're never too old to imagine things."

It was something a batshit crazy person would say, but for some reason, it was enough logic for Byakuya and I. We had sat there, that one summer afternoon, watched her drink her tea, an opulent, gold color, talking to the animals animatedly. Hisana was always eccentric. And we loved her all the more for it.

I yanked down a random t-shirt from the hanging rack, shutting the closet abruptly. I didn't care anymore about how musty it smelled, or how creases and wrinkles weaved across the black, cotton fabric like it was a weathered shore-line. It was Ichigo, for Chris'sake. He wasn't supposed to be special. I didn't need to look fucking _special_ for him.

I leaned against the vanity drawer, massaging my eyelids.

Lumière's first gig of the spring was to be a week away, next Saturday. I couldn't go on like this. We had fans to please, critics to disprove. Somehow, I couldn't feel the passion for my music anymore. I hadn't sung in weeks, but Hisagi, Momo and Renji didn't know this. What was I supposed to say in the practice room tomorrow? Underneath the scrutiny of the buzzing lights, the mirrors facing us on all four walls; a place where you could see everyone's expressions.

Would there be pity?

Would there be despair? Oh God, I didn't want to let anyone else down, not now.

* * *

The air conditioning was too cold. I drew my wool jacket closer, the stiff, gun-grey fabric brushing against my neck. I wiggled my toes, making sure my circulation was still working. God forbid Byakuya have to carry me into Ichigo's house because my legs weren't working, or something stupid like that.

My mind tended to do wonderful and completely illogical things—conjure up strange situations. I would do well as a mad scientist. But, alas, chemistry was never my forte. All the – ous' and the –ic's and the filtering and evaporating. It made no sense to me, the final product. It was like where we were headed now; I was simply going through the motions, sitting in the backseat of Byakuya's Mercedes-Benz, staring at the back of his slicked head. Counting the number of stop signs we passed, watching the roof pitter and patter against shingled roofs.

I did all this, but I had no idea what I would do once I arrived at Ichigo's house.

We pulled up against the side of an apartment.

Ah, so he was one of these people.

The brick walls seemed washed out and dry underneath the heavy, rainy sky. Creeping tendrils of ivy clung to cracks in the surface, the building was six stories high. It's only redeeming quality, I decided, was that six stories was an even number. So, by transitive property, I liked the apartment building.

Sure, it looked like shit, but I couldn't really be bothered anymore by decaying and once-glorious things. It was a reflection of myself, and I liked it. I liked that it wasn't lying to me like everyone else was, _Rukia, you look fantastic today! _Consider it my soul; I could only hope the hallways were convoluted as hell and stairwells crumbling in amongst tattered drywall and ripped out, sparking, angry wires.

"Are you certain this is the address?"

I peered at the rows of glossy windows, wondering which one was Ichigo's.

"Yeah."

Byakuya was still; not even so much a shrug from him.

"If you need anything, please call me."

He sounded tired.

"Okay…thanks…nii-sama."

The formality was strange, bitter on my tongue.

I shifted towards the door, about to pull the handle and let myself out when his voice interrupted, "You're not alone, Rukia."

It was a quiet sentence, but was spoken with assertion, made itself at home in the chilled air.

"Thank you."

I couldn't think of anything to say, really.

I opened the door, wind sweeping in at me as I clambered out. I shut the door, stepping onto the curbside, watching Byakuya through the tinted windows. Our eyes met in his rearview mirror; I smiled at him. Ever so slightly, his thin, marble-like lips smiled a soft smile back, then shifted back into his usual, stoic demeanor. He pulled away, and I watched him go.

* * *

I stood pacing outside the door, unsure if I should knock. I was wrong. The apartment was fucked up. There was not a single redeeming quality about it.

The hallway was damn creepy; the light threw everything off in a sinister, wormy green glow. I kept seeing things, shadows on the walls, doors trembling as I walked past them.

God, I was being stupid.

I chanced a look over the shoulder down the hallway. Hearing something that sounded like rasping whispers, I lost my nerve and threw myself at his door. My second fist barely fell after my first when the door opened.

Immediately, my momentum carried me forward, throwing me through the doorway and into a very surprised Ichigo's arms. I clung tight, eyes closed, not caring, not wanting anything but the safety of someone else's arms.

I was petrified, terrified.

This apartment building was like the place in my nightmares. It had started to have a stranglehold on me. The curious and utterly terrifying déjà vu that had hit me as soon as I had stepped into the elevator, walked through all those dark corridors, had left me numb and frightened.

"Rukia?"

His question was confused, caught between a mixture of anger, surprise and genuine concern.

There was a moment of silence as he deliberated, his breath loud, comforting, rhythmic in my ears.

His long legs untangled themselves from mine, closing the door with a forceful kick. He sat upright, bringing me with him. I was like a limpet, I was locked onto him so tightly. I vaguely remembered wondering if this was what asthmatic attacks were like; my throat was shut, closed tight, I could barely breathe. His hands were large—comforting, as he stroked my back in small, soft circles.

"You okay?" His voice was soft.

I didn't think he was capable of being soft. Everything about him was always despondently un-malleable. I could feel his hot skin through his shirt; my fingers suddenly itched to trace themselves along the contours of his muscles. He felt so strong.

His arms tightened around me as he shifted onto his feet. I still hadn't opened my eyes. I was scared of what I'd let Ichigo see. I was scared of being vulnerable…for the mad surgeon to cut me open again.

His chuckle was low—sexy. I trembled when I heard it.

"Rukia, you can open your eyes, there's nothing to be afraid of."

I slowly did as he said, taking in my surroundings slowly as if I was fitting together all the pieces of a puzzle. His arms were still wound around me, a hand gently curled around my waist, the other pressing against my shoulder blades, pulling me against him.

My legs felt weak, I could barely stand.

His scent was overpowering; I could tell he had just finished showering. I looked up at him, into the tawny, dark, swirling depths of his eyes. I felt my throat constrict as I saw the muted heat in those orbs.

I shifted uneasily; I couldn't ignore the burning sensations spreading through my body at our contact. He felt so powerful, so masculine. It was all I could do to not directly melt against him.

"You okay now?"

I laid my head back on his chest, pleasantly surprised when he didn't protest, nodding.

"'Kay, good. You're just in time—I was about to start cooking lunch."

He released me slowly, almost deliberate in the way he stepped away from me. I felt rejected; cold once more. I leaned against the wall, balanced my feet against the scratched, white linoleum floor tiles.

"Are you hungry?"

He was watching me, I couldn't meet his eyes. I stared at the rest of his body; the lean, sculpted line of his chest clad in a thin, black t-shirt, the worn, acid-wash jeans clinging to his long legs. My cheeks were flushed as I nodded.

Ichigo grinned, rubbing the back of his neck ruefully, "You know, this is the quietest I've ever seen you."

My head snapped up, fixing him with a glare.

His grin widened.

"That's better."

* * *

It wasn't really cooking, he just put a block of dried ramen in a boiling pot of water. I sat by the island, running my fingertip along the tip of its granite surface, a mottled swirl of browns, blacks and grays.

"Sorry, the apartment building is pretty creepy. No-one will hurt you here though."

I suppressed a shudder, "Does anyone even live here?"

He shrugged, "Some. Don't your friends live here?"

I shook my head, rolling my shoulders. I craned my neck backwards, "No, they live at the Sakura Inn that's across the street."

"Better than here, huh?"

I snorted, kicking my feet against solid wood. I was wearing mismatched socks. It didn't really bother me anymore. Life was too complicated for me to be aggravated over what went on my feet. If I had my way, I wouldn't even wear shoes, but that would be uncivilized. Then again, what was a civilian but the clothes he wore and the places he went?

I'm not even a civilian of Karakura anymore, I don't consider myself to be one, at least; I'm barely here.

"It's ready." He put on two oven mitts, they had acorn prints on them, which I found oddly endearing.

Ichigo carried the pot over to the dining table. I slid off the tall bamboo stool and followed him. He flipped on the lights, they were beveled, glass flowers, hanging from stainless steel tendrils and vines reaching into the starched, white ceiling.

"Nice place," I commented, seating myself and looking around. The floor in the kitchen was beechwood, one could tell it was well kept from its polished sheen. The walls were a modern, gentle-green color, extending into an opulent shade of crimson in the living room. A white coach lay sprawled on the thick black carpet, there was barely any other furniture except for a large television set, a glass table, and a picture of a beautiful woman hanging on the wall opposite of us. The ceiling lights blinked down with their great, sleepy eyes, the windows looked out onto the vivacious market street.

"Thanks…Dad went a little out on the decoration and stuff, considering what a low-scale building this whole thing is."

"Who's the woman?"

He took the lid off the pot, I couldn't see his face through the thick, fragrant steam, "That was my mom."

_Was_. Ah. She was gone? Dead? Or left…did she leave?

"Oh."

Ichigo probed the noodles with a chopstick, it was quiet for a few minutes as he dished them out onto two, porcelain plates shaped like flowers.

"Aren't you going to ask me anymore about her?"

"Your mother?"

He laughed, it was short and dry, "Yeah, my _mother_. You know, no one really says that anymore."

"That's too bad, since I do. And no…no, I don't feel like," I stopped, searching for the right words. He sat down across from me, looked at me. "It's not my place to know."

His eyes were slightly shadowed in the light, I could see hidden, sparkling hues of brown that were normally hidden.

He nodded once, quickly, "Let's eat, then."

"Your room is very…black."

"Now, now, Rukia, let's not be racist."

I punched him in the shoulder, "That was a lame joke. Got anymore?" I went over to his bed, sat down. I wriggled on it a bit, testing how soft the mattress was.

"It's nice," I approved, I looked over to Ichigo, his face was slightly red. Aww, he was blushing. Wait. Why was he blushing?

"Get off my bed!"

"Why should I?" I demanded, folding my feet up so I sat Indian-style on his sheets.

"B-because…I don't want you sitting there. Sit on the floor or something."

"That's stupid. My ass would go numb in like three minutes."

"So be it. Now get off."

"No."

I was now curled protectively into a fetal position, hugging onto his pillow as he approached me. I buried my face in the cotton fabric, smelling his pure, heady scent, feeling his hands on my shoulder, trying to jolt me out of my position. I think I smiled a bit, and I guess I must've laughed or something, because then he was tickling me, invoking short, little gasps from me.

"Stop it," I cried out breathlessly, tossing my head, lashing out wildly. His voice was light-hearted, he was now on the bed with me, leaning over me on all fours, cornering me.

"No," he laughed, I looked up, there was a playful grin on his face.

I tried to use my feet to push him away from me, but he attacked my stomach, so I was forced to curl up into a ball once more. His fingers felt ridiculously good on my body, I could feel lazy heat, lust coiling within me. Half of me wanted to just fight back with everything I got, pin him down, kiss him. The other half shook its head, told me to act rational.

The problem was, when he was touching me like this, when he was laughing with me like this, when he was making me feel so goddamn happy like this—I didn't want to be rational.

My hands reached up to put a strangle hold on his neck, I was so close I could almost feel his pulse, but then he flipped me over, pinning my hands behind me.

"Checkmate," he smirked, shifting to sit upright.

"Now get off my bed, or I'll sit on you."

I wriggled my body violently in protest, I'm pretty sure I almost cracked a rib. He was holding me down so tightly. And that sentence was so full of innuendos I'm sure I would never have been able to say it out loud.

"Get…off!" I grunted, I turned my head to the side, glared at him. His face was flushed, his eyes looking down at me, a strange sheen in them. Was it really what I thought it was? Did he want me as well? Or was my mind just playing tricks on me…after all, Kaien had just been playing with me. I had never meant anything to him. Did I actually mean something to Ichigo? Christ, the way he was looking at me now…

He leaned forward, he was so close I could see the mottled specks of ochre in his eyes, I could feel his harsh breath on my neck. I watched his Adam's apple, the way it jutted out, reinforcing the masculinity he embodied; his arms were so strong, his hands calloused and large against mine. The steely heat I felt from his body against mine.

His lips spread wickedly, his grin devastatingly sexy. His tone was low and deep as he uttered only one word before sending me to my demise, "No."

Ichigo pushed me off the side of the bed, I went, tangling in his black sheets. I felt ridiculous, I must have looked ridiculous, with my hair mussed, my face red from Ichigo-induced-asphyxiation and amusement.

"That," I panted, still laying boneless in on his floor, "That was unfair."

"How so?" his triumphant voice floated to me from above.

"It just was," I struggled to sit upright, but my lungs weren't working properly yet. I just lay there, drinking in his scent, feeling far too warm inside, wondering what the hell he was doing to me. I didn't feel right, I didn't want to be happy; after all, Hisana and Byakuya weren't. But somehow, I felt that it was okay, that being with Ichigo meant that my happiness was validated. That my very existence was validated. He made me feel alive.

"I'll be right back; bathroom."

I nodded, unable to answer, my emotions were thick in my throat.

Ichigo Kurosaki.

Absolutely sinful.

I felt my body ache for him, I closed my eyes, pulled his sheets over me. Breathing in the perfumed scent, I groaned.

He didn't know what he was doing to me.

* * *

God, her eyes were so large, so full of wonder. They were the color of the ocean under the right, summer's night sky, filled with stars, gentle tides; the moon. Christ, I must sound like a lunatic lover right now. _Just eat the ramen and don't look at her, Ichigo._

I didn't know why I had held her like that. The way she had barged into my apartment, literally fell into my arms—I had never seen her so afraid before.

So exposed.

I wanted to keep her, protect her. She seemed so fragile, so breakable. The everyday Rukia I saw at school was hardly gentle; she had a fiery personality that set her apart from all the other girls.

Maybe that's why I liked her.

Maybe that's why I had noticed her, from our encounter in the practice room, to the way we had both become class presidents. She was different, and I liked that. Out of all the girls ogling me in the hallways, of everyone that tried desperately to get my attention, Rukia Kuchiki was someone who enchanted me. She was someone I couldn't ignore, yet it seemed like she ignored me.

I couldn't stop looking at her, eating her food the peculiar way she did, always pushing it around on her plate, eating a few strands at a time, stopping to look around. It was my first look at her up close, her natural personality. She was pretty from a far, but up close, she was beautiful. [There I go again, with my romantic semantics.]

Her face was doll like, her large eyes held the seeming of a doe, quiet and patient with a sense of terrible suffering. Her hair was wispy, artsy; again, different.

Everything about her screamed out that she was someone very special I couldn't afford to lose. Of all the places our family had moved to, of all the places Dad decided to stay in, it was Karakura. And I couldn't have agreed more. Here was finally someone who looked like me—wandering and lost.

The minute she set foot in my room and made a bee-line for my bed, I knew I was done for. The way she looked so devastatingly cute, sitting there like the fucking Queen of Persia on my bed, was too cute for words. Not that I would ever admit that she was cute.

To everyone that knew me, she was terrible; a four feet tall midget with a penchant for giving everyone shin splints.

_Four foot nine_, she'd always re-iterate, smacking my arm, _it's not four feet…I'm almost five feet, y'know. _I had snorted, told her I'd buy her stripper heels for her birthday. That had earned me a kick on the shin. Maybe one of these days I should start wearing shin guards underneath my school uniform. But I hardly ever really felt her foot, I was too busy smiling down at the stupid little frustrated scowl on her face.

But enough of my reminiscing; it was bad. She was sitting on my fucking bed. My bed. Where I slept. Where I dreamt. Where I laid and thought about things, mused over life.

I could never lie there the same if she continued to sit there, making my brain short-circuit. She would always be there, on my mind; a week from now, I knew I'd be there, clinging close to the sheets, trying to draw her scent from the black fabric.

I'd berate myself for being stupid, lovesick, miserable…I'd blame her for being so charming and sexy. Wait. Sexy?

When had I ever thought about Rukia in a term like that? No, when I had I _ever_ considered a girl sexy? Sure there were a few at my old schools, but they'd never really amount to anything…they'd all been just seeking my attention, trying to wind themselves around me to soak up the attention I got as a star piano player.

She was looking at me, biting her lip nervously, her skin milky white in contrast to the blackness of my room. I crossed the room to her, tried to yank her off of my bed. My face was growing red, I could tell, a furious blush spreading across my cheeks. It was really something, that we were now both on the bed together. I knew my family could choose to come home right this instant, to barge into my room and take our situation out of context.

I chose to tickle her, and I instantly knew I had made it worse for myself. The minute my hands wandered over her body, skimmed her slight curves [curves I never really knew existed], I felt my own body stir alive. Lust. God, I was beginning to want Rukia.

This was wrong.

Wasn't it?

We barely knew each other. We hadn't even kissed yet.

But there was a first time for everything…right?

I began to grow my insistent with my touch, my mind spiraling, I was beginning to spin out of control. My breath was coming hot and fast, I wondered if she could feel my emotions teeming out of me, if she knew what all her wriggling about was doing to me. I could only hope that she wouldn't see the erection that was beginning to press insistently against my pants; thank God I had decided to wear sweat pants. But still; when I had her pinned down, when she was looking at me like that with her soulful eyes, I knew it then.

Rukia Kuchiki was sexy.

I wanted her…and from the looks of it, she wanted me.

I leaned towards her, intent on kissing her, intent on discovering how her skin, her lips would feel underneath my lips, but I resisted.

No.

It was not the time for that.

I wasn't ready. I knew my heart wasn't ready to love someone, despite my body desperately disagreeing with me. I could feel the apprehension within Rukia, the hurt that emanated from her. She had been hurt before; and I did not want to ever do her any wrong.

And so, I released her—rolled her off my bed. Chuckled at the sight of her laying there, panting for breath. Stared at the ceiling, trying to sound normal when she told me it was unfair. Then, I stepped over her, quickly, excusing myself to the restroom.

Closing the door, I leaned my forehead against it, closing my eyes against the harsh, bright lights. The things Rukia did to me, she did not know.


	8. Chapter 8: Roses, the Rain

A/N: Sorry for the late update. A lot of personal stuff happening to me, so this chapter really isn't the best...

Hope you enjoy it though!

Sorry Sakana-san, I didn't send it to you for beta-ing because I figured it's been so long, I might as well publish so the readers won't freak, so, the next chapter I'll send to you, I promise!

Thank you for reading, and reviews are always welcome!

8

* * *

"Are you feeling well, Ichigo?"

I stared out the car window into the deadened, stormy sky. Rainclouds had billowed in overnight, shrouding the morning in heavy darkness.

"Yeah."

"I'm still disappointed that you decided to take up kendo. You know that you have to protect your arms…your hands…your fingers. You are a concert pianist, Ichigo, remember that."

"I know, I know."

"Ichigo, are you listening to me? Take responsibility, please."

"I know already, I'm fine—really."

"You sound tired."

I sighed, irritated, pressing my fingers into my eyelids. Ulquiorra Cifer was a dreadfully nagging manager, but a good manager nonetheless. He dedicated himself to clearing up and arranging my schedules, and for that, I was thankful. But sometimes, he made me want to rip out his intestines and jump rope with them.

"It's five in the morning, I have a right to be."

"You should have gone to sleep earlier yesterday."

"I was too busy going over the Mendelssohn. It's a hard piece, you know?"

"All that time you spend at kendo practice can be better used for such practice, Ichigo."

I growled, sinking lower in the leather seat. His patronizing attitude was starting to make my mood turn sour. I was already irritated by the funereal atmosphere of the town.

Outside, the rain was starting to come down. Hesitantly, at first, but then fast, in sleek, icy droves. The wind slashed at the car, sending the rain hissing and spattering against the pavement. I thought about the people that specifically ordered tin roofs for their houses, just so they could listen to the sound of the rain. How crazy; who would want to listen to this shit noise? It was like the sound of a radio receiving bad connection, crackling and stuttering with static.

"Wonderful day," I muttered, sitting forward, trying to see through the windshield. The lights of the cars passing us, idling in front of us, were muted and broken through the water droplets. It was a mosaic of red, green, yellow.

"Your humor is quite droll, as usual," Ulquiorra remarked in his voice. A deadened voice that somehow always held a biting edge.

"How long do we have to get to the concert hall?"

"An hour. Then, we begin prepping. Microphone testing, lighting checks. Then we do a run of the whole program. Tomorrow, we have to arrive at twelve o'clock sharp. Yamamoto will be there personally to make sure all of his artists are behaving."

"Is Orihime going to be there?"

"Inoue-san? Yes, she will be."

I felt my insides clench nervously; the violinist had been bothering me since the middle of last year. Ever since Yamamoto signed her with Seireitei Records, she had been stalking me. I had found bouquets of roses outside of our apartment door several times. Part of me admired her for having the tenacity to travel through the horrific apartment building to deliver the flowers, but part of me wondered if she had simply had them delivered. After all, she had the money; we all had the money.

Yamamoto was smart; he ran his business well, promoting his artists constantly and pushing everyone to the top. We were all hugely popular in the music industry thus far, circling at the top like sharks in the water.

"Is something the matter?"

"Yeah…would it be possible if I could get a restraining order against her? Or maybe arrange for someone to burn her house down?"

"That would be unnecessary—Inoue-san is quite level-headed…although I'm not sure what she sees in someone like you."

I snorted, crossed my arms across my chest. The lights turned green, the car rolled forward.

"She tried to fucking rape me at the Encore Party a few months ago. She's insane."

"I'd like it if you refrained from using such language in my presence."

"Go suck a co—"

"Kurosaki-san!"

Scowling, I kicked off my dress shoes, laying down across the seat. I really couldn't give a damn anymore, I was tired, and by transitive property, in a horrible mood.

"Careful, you're going to wrinkle your pants," Ulquiorra observed through the rearview mirror. I stared at him, at those listless, dark-green eyes, "I don't care. It's just practice anyways."

"Anyway."

"What?"

"It's 'anyway', not 'anyways.'"

I sighed in exasperation, closing my eyes, refusing to comment on his pedantic tendencies.

The car coasted along smoothly, I could feel where the road swelled upward in a hill, where it buckled and ducked back down. This is what people must feel when they sit in a fishing boat, so intimately close to the ocean that they can feel every disturbance in the water.

My thoughts began to wander. It was Rukia; the damn girl had been in my thoughts lately ever since last week. I wondered where she was, what she was doing.

If she was thinking about me.

My brows creased, my scowl deepened in annoyance. My heartbeat was loud through my ears, hot in my throat.

What a trivial thought. Stupid, careless me. Why would Rukia think about me?

I turned over onto my back, looking up at the ceiling. The black polyester seemed to soak up my stare. I kicked my heels softly against the door, my legs cramped in the small space.

We had decided on who would make the costumes, who would prepare the food for the café. Rukia had mused over how she could construct the jukebox costume.

"What songs should I know?" she had asked, looking at me, her face gentle, glowing. She didn't wear make-up. I had wondered vaguely what she would look like with eyeliner, smoldering ash hues outlining those large, soul-stealing eyes. What would they feel like if I kissed her, held her face still while I brushed my lips over her eyelids…

I shifted uncomfortably, trying to direct my thoughts somewhere elsewhere.

_Picture Ulquiorra naked or something. _

"Ichigo, are you awake?"

I shuddered.

"Yeah."

He nodded, his bony finger reaching to slid in a C.D. into the music-player. The warm swirl of jazz flooded the interior of the car.

"Coltrane. He was one of the best."

I nodded, agreeing silently. Somehow, the low, velvet tones, the crooning melodies, reminded me of Rukia. Of her glossy hair. How it would look like a starless night if I ran my fingers through it, it was so thick and dark.

I sat up, looked miserably out of the window.

Rukia Kuchiki. She was driving me crazy.

* * *

I coughed, breathed deeply.

"You're landing the runs, at least," Momo's voice drifted to me from behind. She strummed her guitar softly, the strings whining as she practiced various riffs, letting her fingers ghost over the fingerboard.

"Yeah, but I'm still rusty," I murmured, trying to not let the disappointment show in my eyes.

"Water break." Renji tossed me a warm water bottle, "You can't sing with an attitude like that, Rukia."

"Like you're one to talk," I narrowed my eyes at him, pouting.

Renji shrugged, kneeling to the amp on the floor, adjusting the noise levels.

"I'm just a bass player, so don't look at me."

"Yeah, you just happen to be one of the players that keep the tempo. You and I are the mother-fucking law in the band; we go however fast we want, and everyone follows." Hisagi pointed out, twirling his drumsticks. His right leg tapped the floor impatiently, "Whenever you're pissed, you start playing like shit. What am I supposed to do then?"

"And you're perfect?"

A brief flurry of drumbeats and crash of cymbals was Renji's answer.

"Of course." Hisagi declared proudly.

"Bastard."

"Love you, too."

"God, what are you, homo?"

"Guys, shut up, Rukia's trying to rest!"

I looked at Momo gratefully. The practice room fell silent. I sat down on bench, massaging my temples. I kept my gaze down on the floor, I didn't want to see my reflection in the mirrors; I was afraid of what I'd see. The days of sleep deprivation had turned my mind into sludge. Hours, minutes, seconds melted together, I could barely remember anything.

I cleared my throat, tried to run through my vocal warm-ups. I could feel the sad gazes of my band mates upon me. _Such a complete failure_, their stares seems to say. Feeling self conscious, I gave up, my voice trailing off weakly.

"Rukia," Momo breathed.

"I'm going to go."

"Rukia! We haven't even practiced yet!"

"Yeah. I know. I'm sorry—I really am."

I stood up, swaying a bit. I felt drunk, my limbs soft and unresponsive. The lights were too goddamn bright. They were like fireflies; I wondered if I opened my hands to the ceiling, I could catch them. But I knew my fingers would close on air.

I could feel tears running down my face, like the first spring rain, how it always brought life to the barren earth. Although, it felt as if these tears were my life draining out of me.

There was the clattering of wood as Momo and Renji set down their instruments and rushed to help me. I guess I had fallen to my knees. My hands fluttered, broken birds as I pushed them away.

"Just leave me alone." I staggered upright, I felt haggard and angry and hurt. Like a bull facing the matador, gleaming-gold sabres and blood-red flags bristling out of his ribs.

I forced my legs up into a run, ignoring their shouts, pelting out of the practice room before any of them could help me. I couldn't seem to stop running; I ran down the hallway, past the bulletin boards plastered with contests no-one gave a shit about, out the run-down lobby, out the building. Where I was going, I did not know.

It was raining.

It was cold.

I stood there, my body surprisingly still, aching. I looked up at the sky, which held the seeming of a vast urn, upturned, despair and tears spilling out in great, grey pools. Lightning lashed out in the distance. The sky wasn't just sad; it was angry.

Thunder roiled about overhead, growling like an angry tigress. I saw her eyes on the horizon, flashing, blinding lights searing the line where sky and earth met.

Wind buffeted my face with cold, cold rain, but I couldn't seem to feel it. The way it clawed at my skin was no worse than the terrible feelings burning underneath my skin, corroding me.

"Rukia?"

It was Hisagi. He stood behind me, black hair plastered flat against his tattooed neck. Rain ran in rivulets down his skin, trailed down his jaw, past his throat. His dark grey eyes were filled with concern.

"Rukia…what's going on?"

"Hisagi…please. Just leave me alone." I sighed, folding my arms around myself, turning my back to him.

"I want to help you. Everyone wants to help you."

"You guys can't. You can't do anything for me." My voice was breaking, the wind was growing stronger.

He was stepping closer, I could feel the tension between us, like he was scared of me. Scared of what I had become.

His arms were warm as he tugged me close to him, "Come on, let's go back in the building."

"No," I cried, pulling away, my tears falling relentlessly.

"Rukia, I can help you," his voice was soft, he drew me back in his arms.

It felt safe; secure. But somehow, it felt wrong. It didn't feel like Ichigo.

I looked up, saw the number tattooed on his cheek, his hair the color of winter darkness shadowing his eyes. Why was I thinking of Ichigo now? Why?

I held on tighter, still staring, my mind racing.

When I had first met Hisagi, his facial resemblance to Kaien had thrown me off. I had hated him, from his dog collar bristling with spikes down to his studded boots. His rugged appearance had made me skeptical—his wild hair, the dangerous slit of his eyes; the steel barb piercing his lip. But over time, slowly but surely, Hisagi had gained my trust.

He was one of my best friends, one of the people that truly knew me. And yet, I had surrendered my heart to Ichigo, another goddamn Kaien look-alike, within a matter of several weeks.

It didn't make any sense, and my recklessness was starting to scare me.

The rain was unrelenting, so I gave up trying to think, folding myself into his chest, unsure of what to do. He was the only protection there was now. There was no Ichigo, there was no happiness—no warmth.

"Let's go back."

I shook my head, the rain was soaking through both of our clothes. I quivered, feeling the cold seeping into my skin.

Hisagi sighed, unsure of what to do. He looked around, at the traffic roaring past us on the streets, people walking hurriedly past with umbrellas.

"If you're not going back to practice, do you want to go to the café?"

I was tentative, "What about you? What will you do?"

"Rukia, I'm not leaving you alone like this."

It was silent for a moment. Then I nodded. I didn't know if it was because I didn't want to go home, or because I no longer felt that I had a home.

* * *

"Beautifully played!"

There was a polite smattering of applause from the few spectators in the concert hall.

I pulled my fingers from the keys in an elegant arc, releasing my foot from the pedal. The last echoes of my piano song drifted off into the sculpted, gold-trimmed rafters. I stared up into the immense dome, at the way it reached up into the sky, darkened by the storm outside.

"Ichigo, let's go get something to eat!" Madarame Ikkaku ducked into view, leaning against the side of the stage, against the immense folio curtain.

"This curtain is a bitch to lift. Takes two people, and that pisses me off."

I stood up, moving away from the piano bench, "Not so strong, are you, Ikkaku."

"Let's see you lift a thousand pounds with a rope," he muttered, tossing me Ulquiorra's car keys.

I caught them deftly, turning to look up into the balcony. My manager was seated in the center stage portion, at the very back, nearly hidden in the shadows. I could see his pale face staring down at me, cold and emotionless marble.

I shook the keys at him, calling, "Going out to the café!"

He nodded, standing up and moving towards the door, "Don't be too long."

I nodded, watching him fade out of sight, melting into the shadows with his black, satin suit. Ikkaku exhaled loudly, as if he had been holding a pent-up breath, "That dude is fucking creepy."

"Yeah, people say that a lot."

"It doesn't bother you?"

I shrugged, peering into the darkness of backstage, trying to locate my jacket, "You get used to it."

My answer went unheard; Ikkaku, who, impatient as always, had already started for the exit door.

"Impatient bastard," I muttered. I stopped to look back, to admire the stage. It really was nice; luxurious. The floor was a sleek, lacquered black, the curtains made of the finest velvet, spun in shades of rich vermillion. Playing on the piano was absolutely divine; it was old, the keys yellowed with age, but the sound produced was flowing and vibrant, resonating throughout the entire concert hall with majestic ease.

"Are you coming or not?" Ikkaku peeked back through the door, his bald head gleaming in the hallway light.

I waved my hand at him, "Coming!"

* * *

It was a quaint café, idyllic in the way it sat on the curb and watched the comings and goings of cars under the quiet light of streetlights. It took after the traditional feel of France, with white stucco walls filled with ivy, striped, candy-cane awnings. The glass doors and windows were set in black frames, hidden amidst fragrant cloisters of potted lilies and rosemary.

Underneath the gloom of the raging storm, the café somehow retained its friendliness, beckoning to me and Hisagi, warm, amber lights blushing behind its curtains. When we stepped in, the warmth hit me like a wall, it was such a stark contrast to the cold bleakness outside. Smells of freshly baked bread, garlic, coffee, tangled into a filling medium and gave me a sense of comfort.

"Want anything to eat?"

I shook my head, "Maybe just some coffee."

"What kind?"

"Just black."

He blanched, "Tastes like shit. It's so bitter…how can you stand the stuff?"

I leaned against the brass poles denoting the path of the waiting line, a small smirk on my lips, "The bitterness is nice. You learn to appreciate the small details as you get older, Hisagi."

He rolled his eyes, pulling out his wallet from his soaked jean pocket.

Hisagi rifled through receipts, cards, ticket stubs. He pulled out his credit card, smoothed his thumb over it, "I'm almost out. I'll have to make a deposit next week."

I crossed my arms, annoyed by the wet clothes sticking to my skin. It was really unpleasant.

"I haven't used mine in ages."

"You should, Byakuya's put so much on it."

"Pfft." I looked over into the dining areas, the lipstick-red booths, smooth white tables, black wicker chairs.

"I'll get us a seat."

He nodded, and I left, my dark blue moccasins squeaking on the floor. Everyone insisted they were black, but I told them they were dark blue. Water dripped from my damp hair.

I decided on a corner seat, a booth. It was for privacy, because I had a feeling Hisagi would be prodding me about certain topics, but kind of more like I didn't want anyone to see how shitty I looked.

Slow, waltzing violins, with twirling, twanging flares of accordion, drifted out of the loudspeakers, set in the dark-russet ceiling.

I picked at the thorns of the rose sitting on our table in a glass vase. It was bright yellow, it looked like it was smiling at me. I touched the bottom of the vase, wiping away the condensation. The glass felt cold on my thumb. I could read the tag attached to the stem of the flower; _Rosa berberifolia._

"Here you go."

The mug slid over to me, scraping thickly against the laminated table-top.

Hisagi slid into the seat in front of me, his jeans protesting loudly. His eyebrows quirked in annoyance.

'"Sorry," I admitted, my eyes dodging down to the cup in my hands. "If I hadn't run out, neither of us would be this messed up right now."

He sighed, taking a sip of his own drink, an Americano with mottled hues of caramel and dark brown. He stopped to savor the tastes on his tongue, then shook his head, "Nah, don't worry about it, Rukia. I'm your friend, and I couldn't just leave you out there."

"Do you think everyone's going to be okay without us there?"

"Renji's an idiot, but he's got somewhat good work ethics…and Momo will be fine. We've got this, okay?"

His hand moved to cover mine, and I didn't mean to, but I moved my hand away, down to my lap, and hurt registered in his eyes. I opened my mouth to say something, to apologize, but at that moment, the door rang and clanged open, and two men walked in.

One of them was Ichigo.

My mouth went dry, my stomach dropped.

I couldn't feel any more miserable.


	9. Chapter 9: Thinking of You

A/N: I've been on an emotional rollercoaster for the past few weeks, so sorry for this late update! It's quite long though, so I hope that makes up for making you readers wait!

9

* * *

"Smells great in here," Ikkaku tilted his head up, inhaling sharply. He turned back to me, his head gleaming under the ceiling lights, "When was the last time we came here, man?"

I shrugged, my fingers moving to brush over the rain droplets on my jacket. Ulquiorra was going to kill me. Something about Gucci and bricklane washed denim—whatever the fuck that meant. Apparently it was expensive, but couldn't hold up for shit. It was just rain, for crying out loud, and it's not like we had acid rain. My carbon footprint was impressively small; and that's what Ulquiorra had said, word for word—I kid you not.

"This brings back memories. We'd always hang out here after school," Ikkaku said as he leaned against the railing, staring up at the menu, eyeing his options. "Seriously, when's the last time we even saw each other?"

"Probably last fall, for the October Festival."

He bowed his head, chuckling, "That was the shit. It was the happiest I've ever seen you, Ichigo."

"I was drunk," I mumbled, ears turning red from what he implied, "And I can have fun without being inebriated. Unlike you, Baldie."

Suddenly, he jolted upright, and I backed off, but he ignored my insult, scanning the employees behind the counter.

"Tatsuki still working here?"

I craned my neck to look past the glass displays of café items: elaborate slices of cheesecakes piled high with cream and fruit, gold-leaf macarons, sitting amidst frills of citrus zest and chocolate.

"It's not her shift, anyhow. No point in looking," I rolled my eyes, giving up on the jacket and walking over to join Ikkaku.

"Oi, Ichigo!"

A strong female voice echoed from within the kitchen, ricocheting off glinting, silver machinery. A woman with sharp eyes eagerly pushed through the stainless steel doors and arrived at the counter.

"You guys are back! I _knew_ I would recognize your voices anywhere!" She smiled. Tatsuki had a wonderful eye smile, and you could tell it would give her laugh lines. It would mark her as a person of happiness for years to come.

"Hey Tatsuki," I called, looking down, pulling my wallet from my pocket. My fingers tabbed through the useless receipts I had kept over the years. I didn't know why I still kept them; I guess I liked the fact that they lent solidity to my existence. It was proof that I was living and I had been places. That I had found cold cuts of sashimi at Heinen's last Tuesday and gone down near Yumisawa for dinner—it was Ladies night, did you know that?

"Here you go," I couldn't help the smile that traced my lips as I slipped her my credit card. Tatsuki's easy-going attitude was calming—it loosened me up whenever I was with her. Her tomboyish attitude was what led me to her and vice versa. We had joined up at the same dojo when we were young, and she'd always whip my ass. Although I'd never admit that, even if I was roped to a log and about to be pushed off a flaming cliff. I have my dignity to preserve, you know.

"Will you guys be having the usual?"

"Yeah, two Crepe Romanoff's for me. Easy on the cinnamon."

I looked up, squinting into the neon yellow glow of the menu. I could barely read the curling, feathery print.

"I can't even tell what's up there," I complained.

"As indecisive as always," Tatsuki leaned her elbows on the counter, grinning.

I ran my hands through my hair, feeling it damp and cold.

"No, it's because the font you guys use are going to make me develop cataracts. Seriously, I feel like my eyeballs are being baked in UV light. It's too fucking bright."

"Cat racks? I see you've got some fetishes goin' on, Kurosaki."

"Cataracts, not cat racks, Ikkaku. How the hell did you even hear that?"

"How 'bout the Spinach Pochette," Tatsuki decided for me, ignoring my indignant growls and punching in the order.

"Fancy." Ikkaku snorted, grabbing my credit card as Tatsuki slid it back over.

I slid my foot out in front of Ikkaku, choking with laughter when he almost tripped.

"C'mon, honey, let's get a seat," he smiled devilishly at me, grabbing my wrist and promptly dragging me off.

"Whaaaaat, you're not going to stay and talk with your ol' pal?" Tatsuki pouted from behind the register, grey eyes glowering. She smoothed the apricot-colored handkerchief tied around her forehead, pulled up her collar indignantly.

"Don't call me that, _Ikkaku_! Sit down with us," I called, arms flailing as I tried to keep from losing my balance. I half expected my face to collide with the cold, grimy floor tiles, the color of cracked, old leather.

I turned. "Cool it, for fuck's sake," I hissed, shoving him forcefully, nearly knocking over a table in the process.

"How couth, Kurosaki," a smooth, glassy female voice reached me from the corner of the café.

"W-wha…"

I faced the corner, where a small woman and a rugged looking man sat, both staring at me with cold, calculating eyes. I could feel my veins contracting convulsively, "What the hell are you doing here, _Rukia_?"

Her eyebrow quirked up, it was always the left one. The goddamn left one. She set down the mug she was holding, fixating me with a glare.

"_Well, _I was having a pleasant lunch with Hisagi here before the most boorish brute barged in here."

"I'm elated you're adept in the art of alliteration; but pray do tell," I took two steps towards her, "who is this _brute _you mentioned?"

"His name begins with an 'I' for 'Incompetent'…'Ignorant'…'Irritable'…'Ignoramus'…'Impalpable'…"

"Did you seriously just say '_impalpable'? _What…I'm not _edible _or something like that? W-what kind of an insult is that?"

"She's kinky," Ikkaku prodded me in the side. I had forgotten he was standing next to me, a wide grin plastered on his face. He looked like his jaw was about to crack, his smile was so big.

"Why, dear God, _why_ are you smiling like that?"

"She's right, Ichigo, you _are _all of those things. Well, except for impalpable. But she could try it out, couldn't she?"

"Who's that disgusting specimen of the human species standing next to you, Ichigo?"

I think Ikkaku popped all the blood vessels in his face just then. One moment he was standing there, grinning like a loon, then I was restraining him, preventing him from leaping at Rukia and tearing her to pieces.

Curse the kid, why did he have to be taller than me?

I swept my foot under his legs, behind his knees, bringing him to the floor in a headlock. My face was turning red, and I hated it—everyone in the café was peering at us in a mixture of shock, amusement and disgust.

"Ma…da…rame!" I hissed his name from behind gritted teeth.

There was the clattering of plates as Tatsuki rushed to our side, aiding in restraining Ikkaku.

"Ikkaku, calm down!"

"Let me at the little punk, Ichigo, I'll tear her fucking face off! Who does the little bitch think she is?"

Rukia snorted, standing up, "We're leaving, Hisagi. I can't bear the sight of such ilk."

I frowned; Rukia was being unusually cold. I was used to her usual retorts, the sarcastic comebacks and rolling of her sapphire eyes. But, today, she spoke with a tone akin to the freshly whetted blade of a knife. Sharp and deadly. Murderous.

"Shuuhei?" I gave him a questioning look, "Why are you here with Rukia?"

His eyes were on Rukia, soft as he handed her his jacket, quiet and careful the way he watched her move. Then, he slanted me a look, one red-hot with aggression, "None of your business, Kurosaki."

Their footsteps were loud as they left, clanging the door shut behind them. I released Ikkaku, slowly standing upright, ignoring his cursing and bristling.

Was something going on between Hisagi and Rukia? Had they been fighting?

My hand flew up to the nape of my neck, stroking at my hair, tugging at the strands. Hisagi had been one of the few people that had taken a liking to me when I stepped into Karakura High. That he would be acting so callously towards me pissed me off and stirred my curiosity.

"Damn bitch. And did you see that motherfucker she was with? They both had sticks up their asses, what a fine pair they were!"

There was a sigh from Tatsuki.

"Would it be too much to ask of you to not overreact to what people say about you?"

"Did you see the look on her face? The bitch was asking for it!"

My eyes narrowed; Hisagi couldn't possibly like Rukia, could he?

* * *

Hisagi dropped me off, pulling all the way into the driveway. He was saying something that sounded like, "Take care and see you tomorrow" when I closed the door on him mid-sentence. Seeing Ichigo at the café had worsened my mood considerably. I didn't know why, maybe it was because he saw me at my weakest—at my lowest. I was vulnerable, and I didn't like that. No-one should ever be able to see me vulnerable.

I stared up at the sky.

It was still storming, the clouds billowing uneasily amidst whipping, groaning winds. Everywhere I looked, flower petals, scratched and torn out by the handful, lay strewn all over walkways. An awful, melodramatic wedding procession.

Hisagi pulled out, his car-wheels lapping at the wet pavement. He flickered on his headlights, flipping them on and off twice.

_Be safe_.

It was part of a little system we had developed, back when Byakuya didn't trust him, and whenever he dropped me off at home after parties, he could just drive by, flicking that little signal. I'd decode it.

But this time, I didn't look back. I knew that signal was there, I could see it glistening off the puddles, off the dripping trunks of the sakura trees. This time, I didn't think I could honor his request. I couldn't guarantee that I would be safe. My future hung in such tandem; how could I feel safe when Hisana was withering away—a beautiful, dying flower, in a hospital bed? How could I feel safe when I couldn't lean on anyone, not since Kaien had destroyed me? I was alone.

I felt around for my house keys, my pants clinging to my legs. I felt like a wet, homeless dog. A mutt.

My fingers were cold and I could barely feel them, but I forced the brass key into the lock, rotating my wrist and listening for the click.

"You're home."

I jumped, nearly screaming. Byakuya had been standing by the window, his shadowy figure facing me. I shut the door quickly, swallowing. How would I explain it all? Surely Momo and Renji had let him know about practice, how I had simply skipped out on them all.

"Dry yourself off. You can't catch a cold, our concert is soon. You know this, Rukia."

He moved towards me, I could see his pale face. He had eyes like a leopard; they watched me from overheard, through tree branches. They were flat and cold—menacing and electric when he was angry, still and patient when he was thoughtful. He was thoughtful now.

"Take care of yourself."

My eyes widened, my fingers curled around the keys. The sensation of my skin against the biting, serrated edges kept me weighed down and it pulled me back into reality.

"Thank you, Nii-sama. Um…" I wavered, looking down at my feet. "You too. Take care, Nii-sama."

He nodded, a small, infinitesimal gesture. Then, he glided past me, turning the lights of the hallway on.

"Be sure to do your laundry. You have been neglecting it for quite a while."

He disappeared into the basement, down into his study.

White light from the chandeliers washed over me, the bangles of reflected, refracted light from the crystal shards lighting my way up the stairs. I ran my fingers over the wooden banister, carved with delicate figurines.

Here in this house that I shared with my brother, where it was just Nii-sama and I…for the very first time, I felt this light could comfort me.

* * *

The sunshine slated through the windows of my room, gentle and spotted like a golden cat, gliding across my walls and wooden floor. My body was stiff, I didn't feel like getting up.

I rolled my neck to the side, glaring at my alarm clock. Although it wasn't Miley Cyrus, it was some goddamn screamo-emo band, and it sounded like their lead singer was puking up blood.

I shuddered at the mental imagery of that.

"When I wake up from the loneliness that wakes me up, I think about their always-smiling faces,  
which makes me smile without knowing." I whispered to myself, my elbows creeping up to rest across my tired eyes. It was a beautiful song; all the members had pitched into help write it, whether it was a line, or guitar riff. And I was the one screwing it up for everyone. All their hard work would go to waste if I couldn't perform this weekend. Saturday was the second time we had postponed a performance, and Byakuya had a policy on this sort of a thing; three strikes and you're out.

I rolled my wrists, tested the flexibility of my fingers, unbending and bending them.

Then there was the issue about Ichigo. The way I had treated him had been…unfair.

Exhaling loudly in frustration, I turned completely onto my side, clawing for the sleep button on my alarm clock. As always, the contraption defied me, and I had to viciously throw it on the floor to silence it. If only I could solve my other problems this way.

I sat up, fingers brushing over the threads in the coverlet. It was a strawberry print, how ironic.

The stupid boy had (slowly but surely) gained a hold in my brain, somehow making his way into the majority of my conscious thoughts. Just once, only once…there had been a dream about him.

I didn't welcome the intruding thoughts; the way I always felt giddy with excitement when I saw him sitting there in homeroom, or the way I would walk down the music hallway early in the morning just to hear his playing. It sucked having Kurosaki Ichigo be the best part of my entire day. I wonder if he knew I heard him practicing, how maybe one of these days, he'd even leave me a message.

_Come join me_.

If that happened, I didn't know if I would scream in terror and promptly commit hara kiri with a pencil, or inch the door open, shyly smiling at him with a blush on my cheeks.

"Ughhh, focus, Rukia!" I shook my head viciously, my hands flying up to cover my face.

I could hear the birds chirping outside, like delicate little wind-chimes. I imagined the sun would be sitting on the top of the tree-line as if waiting for me, smoldering gold and violet.

I would take things slowly, step-by-step. It was how nature grew, wasn't it? It was how tender, green shoots sprouted from the ravaged earth after winter.

First things first—_I wriggled my toes, moving to get out of bed—_pick flowers from Byakuya's garden.

Then—_I slipped on a t-shirt—_go the store to buy the Chardonnay.

At the hospital—_I opened the door, the cold air of the hallway hitting my face_—go to Hisana. Be with her.

With a slight shock, I knew then, why I had been so bitter to Ichigo.

While I had been sitting next to Hisana, letting her smell the flowers, promising her a glass of wine after she recovered, I had always been occupied with thoughts of Ichigo. My loyalty was being tested, my attention divided. I felt guilty for not fully concentrating on and taking care of Hisana.

I forced my feet into a pair of tennis shoes, their soles worn and colored from years of use. My feet were the same size as Hisana's.

It wasn't wrong, was it? Was it that horrible that I was…

I stood in front of the kitchen window, looking at the sun.

Was I falling in love?

* * *

"Ichigo, help me move this table!"

"Do it yourself, Dad, you're the one who bought the damn thing."

"Son, why are you like this?" Isshin's voice quavered, his bearded face flushed from the effort of propping up a glass table. "All I want is the best for you and your sis—"

"And where exactly are you going to put it?"

"In the…at the…in front of…"

"You don't even know!"

"Maybe you should stop blabbing and help me think of a place, then!"

Yuzu was busy flipping pancakes at the stove, "Do you guys mind keeping it down?"

"Yeah, don't be a pain in the arse, Ichigo."

"Arse? You're so cool, Dad."

I think he would have thrown the table at me if not for Karen walking in front of me, a glass of orange juice in her hand.  
"What kind are those," she questioned Yuzu, watching her as she leaned against the island.

"Karen-chan, would _you_ be willing to help your dear otou-san with—"

"No."

Dad's pitiful scream rang sharply throughout the apartment.

"Fuck this shit," I muttered, turning on my heels and swiftly retiring to my room. I ignored Isshin's shouts from down the hallway, something that sounded like he was reprimanding me about my language.

I needed to get out of this place. I needed music. I needed to play my piano music.

I sat down heavily on my chair, staring up at the ceiling light. It stared back like a cat's eye. There was a word for that; chatoyant. Like a cat eye. It was stupid—Urahara-san had given the English class a list of the most beautiful English words.

"_What the hell is this," I had asked, fully aware his hand was aimed straight for my head. I was the only one in the class he beat up on a regular basis. He told me it was reflex training, and I thought it was pure idiocy._

"_Too slow, Kurosaki! And I mean that mentally and physically."_

_A few girls giggled, whispering to themselves about Urahara's rugged good looks and sharp, witty tongue. I supposed it was alright, as long Rukia wasn't amongst them._

"_Why do we need to learn this?"_

"_I think your question begs the answer of, 'Why not?'"_

_I scratched my head, "English is dumb, anyways."_

"_Anyway."_

"_What?"_

"_It's not 'anyways', it's 'anyway.'"_

_I had a feeling Urahara-san and Ulquiorra would get along quite handsomely together. _

_As he whipped around and headed up the aisle for the front of the room, I propped my elbow up, resting my chin on my hand. I stared at the paper, the lines of ink, the ugly squiggly letters known as the confused lovechild of basically all the European alphabets. _

Chatoyant.

_That had been the only one to catch my eye. Mainly because it reminded me of Rukia, of her beautiful lavender eyes, and the way they looked when she laughed._

I shook my head, trying to end the reverie.

"Stop flashbacking, stop flashbacking," I muttered, knowing full well how idiotic I sounded.

But it really was the only way to describe how vivid my memory had become, especially about moments concerning Rukia. She was so different, so much stronger than all the other girls I had ever been attracted to. She exuded an air of pride and mystery, and it drove me half crazy trying to figure her out. Especially the way she had been at the café with Hisagi.

I sighed.

Without really thinking, I grabbed my motorcycle keys from my desk, standing up and opening the door. I was surprised to find Yuzu standing there, dressed in a pink apron, a plate of blueberry pancakes in her hand.

"A-ah, I made extra! Sorry, onii-san, I didn't think you'd be leaving so soon!"

The look in her eyes was disappointed. I lowered my hand, dropping the keys into my jean pockets. Smiling, I took the plate from her, petting her head. Her eyes widened at my spontaneous display of affection.

"Forgive me, Yuzu, I haven't really been paying attention to the family these days, have I?"

She shook her head slowly, her gaze on the floor.

"Let's eat together, okay?"

Yuzu smiled, beaming at me. Karen's rough voice echoed down the hallway, "Oi, Ichigo, hurry up. Everything's getting cold."

I leaned against the doorframe, "I'll be out there in a minute or two, okay?" I handed her the plate, watching her shuffle away in her pink slippers.

Closing the door, I pursed my lips, wondering about my plans for the day. I sat down on my bed, messaging my temples.

First—_I ran my hand over my pillow, trying to recall Rukia's scent on the fabric_—I would eat with the family.

Then—_I leaned against the wall_—I would head down to the practice rooms at the music hall. I wondered if Rukia heard me playing on weekday mornings.

Every song I played was for her.

It was a call, it was a beckon for her. I wished she would come in, just one of these days; just sit down next to me on the bench, like she had that first day. Then I would play, and maybe she would feel my soul throughout the entire song, yearning for her attention. Maybe she'd want me back.

I breathed in deep. But what if there was something between her and Hisagi? No—I didn't want to even think there was anything between them. My stomach filled with ice at the thought. Every-time I had touched Rukia, be it to push her teasingly, or to show her how to write the notes on the board, I had felt as if she fit into my arms perfectly. Stupid and cheesy, I know…but it was true.

My days were empty, lifeless, when I wasn't at school, making fun of her, hearing her sharp retorts. I wondered where she lived.

God damn it. I wondered about too many things these days.

* * *

The silence was unnerving.

She moved across the other side of the room, draping tables with tablecloths, laying out doilies, china plates and teacups. I focused on the thin ribbons of paper mache in my hands, looping them in arcs across the top of the classroom walls. I shifted on the ladder, wary of how flimsy the metal structure was.

I wanted to ask her something; anything stupid and trivial to draw her out of her shell. I wanted to know she was okay. The Rukia I had run into at the café was not the Rukia I knew. Some part of me wanted to make sure that she hadn't turned into that gruesome being, that horribly cold persona.

I kept my eyes on the black ribbons, fingers snapping at the tape dispenser.

"How many do you think I should set out?"

I bit back a hiss when her voice broke the silence. It surprised me, making me cut myself on the serrated edge. Blood beaded across my thumb. I placed it hurriedly into my mouth, looking across to Rukia. She had her back turned to me. Half of me wondered if she had said anything at all.

"Well?"

Her voice was tense—embarrassed.

I smirked a bit—the great Rukia Kuchiki; embarrassed. She'd rather eat her arm than admit something like that. Right?

"How many tables do we have?"

She turned, and I found myself quickly glancing at her, itching to get a look at her face. She looked nervous. Wait, what?

I would've fallen off the ladder if not for my impeccable reflexes. That, and I was leaning against the wall for support. Rukia was acting like a giddy little schoolgirl. What was there to be nervous about? Was she ashamed for the way she had acted towards me Saturday?

Maybe she was scared, too. After all, her reaction had scared me.

Scared? There it was again, that emotion. Why was fear so prevalent in our lives? I saw it every day, the way people walked, the way they talked. Quickly, quietly, as if some great abysmal thing would hear them and snatch them away if they so much said something out of line.

"Around fifteen."

"That many?" I sucked in a breath, scrunching my face up in thought. The action must have made her laugh, because her eyes were doing that thing where they looked absolutely charming, and her lips were parted.

"Is that what you always do when you use your brain?" she laughed, covering her mouth with a hand.

"Shut up," I growled, tilting my head at her, hoping I still looked aggressive with black paper draped about me, standing in an uncompromising position on a pitiful ladder.

"Anyway," I huffed, trying to get her back on topic, "set out four for each table then."

She scrunched her face up at me, the gesture some type of white flag between us. I smiled, then caught myself, hoping she hadn't seen. God forbid that I show emotion in her presence. She would tease me mercilessly.

Instead, I heard the rattling of the plates, as if she had nearly dropped them. I whipped my head back, wondering what had gone awry. Her cheeks were flushed, and she wouldn't meet my gaze.

I cut myself on the tape dispenser again.

"Da-dum! Jjang! It's ready! Urahara Kisuke's Homeroom Class Café!"

"It's a bit wordy, don'cha think?"

"Who asked for your opinion, Ichigo?'

"Asano, no-one's going to want to come into a place called…_that_."

"Oh, they will, Ichigo. And you want to know why?"

I leaned against the doorway, feigning interest in what Keigo was about to say. It was unnecessary; my attention was immediately diverted when Rukia approached us. She was wearing…a dress.

A dress.

It was short. God, why was it so _short_?

Keigo's clammy hands wound themselves around my arm as he stared at Rukia, "And _this_, Ichigo, is why!"

It was the standard maid costume, a frilled, heart shaped collar-line, a starched, white apron. Silky black thigh-high stocki—wait. _What_? Who had designed the accessories?

I glared at Keigo, who was admiring his handiwork shamelessly. Immediately, I shoved Asano off my arm, moving to cover Rukia from the boy's wicked, gleaming eyes.

I stared down at her.

"Go change."

"Why? I spent so much time changing into this, and Asano said that he'd put in a lot of effort making the—"

With an outstretched arm, I dragged Keigo forward, reveling in his high-pitched squeaks and squeals. I was going to make the bastard suffer.

"How did you take her measurements?" I narrowed my eyes, making sure Rukia was behind my back, out of reach of Keigo's wandering hands. The boy's perversion put all males to shame.

"I-it's not like that, Ichigo! I swear! She just gave me some of her old clothmmmf!"

"Uh huh, sure." My tone was dripping with scathing sarcasm, and I was wondering if it would be considered cruel and unusual punishment to drag the kid around the hallways by his earlobes.

"Let him go, Ichigo!" Rukia was tugging at my arm. "At least I don't have to wear that damn jukebox costume. That thing is an abomination!"

I stared at her in disbelief, "But you're the one who made it!"

She stared down at her shoes, clicking the heels together nervously. God, she was cute.

I tightened my grip on Keigo's throat.

"I know…but…still. Ichigo, who in their right mind would want to stand inside an oversized cardboard box slathered in glitter?"

"Glitter? Couldn't you at least think of something more…creative? Since when do jukeboxes have glitter on them?"

"Actually Ichigo, I've—"

"Shut it, Asano!"

I shoved him down on the ground. He dissolved into a series of blubbers and weird grunts that sounded like some strange mating call.

"What else can we put on it?" Rukia ran her fingers through her hair in frustration. Which, I noticed with a start, had been curled. It looked damn good curled.

Keigo noticed as well, much to my displeasure.

"Wahh, Rukia-chan! Your hair! Let me run my hands through those beautiful, ink-black locks!"

"Piss off Asano!"

I almost smiled; she was snarling like a rabid llama from a petting-zoo. Not that llamas snarled, but…you get my point.

"Yoruichi-san spent so much time on my hair, so don't touch it! No, don't even look at it!"

"Yoruichi-san?"

"Ahh, yes. I suppose you've never really met her. She's the Forensics teacher."

"She came in early today to help with the festival?"

"Actually, Ichigo, the—"

"Shut _up_, Asano!"

"The festival lasts three days. The school is divided into three sections: the first floor, the second floor, and the balcony. The first floor, a.k.a, _us_, will be holding festivities today. The second floor then has it on the second day, and the balcony is the last day."

"There's a bonfire dance on the last day," Asano piped in before I introduced his face to the floor once more.

My lips thinned; I felt my insides shriveling up. Anything beginning with a 'd' and rhyming 'dance' was anathema to me. Combined with a bonfire, this dance sounded like a pagan ritual. Maybe I could sacrifice Asano—tie his hands and feet together and throw him off the roof or someth—

"Ichigo, are you even listening to me? What are we going to do?" Rukia was shaking me, eyes slightly panicked. She was wearing makeup (Winged eyeliner and lavender eye-shadow.) (And it's slightly disturbing that I knew how to describe it.)

From up close, she was awfully pretty, and her scent was awfully intoxicating. Suddenly, I was aware of her proximity, and the ways my body was reacting. My tongue was heavy, lazy; I could barely swallow let alone reply.

Damn teenage hormones.

I let go of Asano, aiming a kick at him. He scrabbled out of range, wiping what seemed to be saliva from his mouth. My lips curled in disgust. "Go finish decorating the classroom, Keigo. And if you so much _look_ at Rukia, I'm going pour scalding tea on you."

"Protective much, Ichigo?"

I turned around, the voice familiar.

Hisagi Shuuhei stood behind me, a crooked smile on his face. Hinamori Momo was at his side, looking at me like I was the second coming of Christ.

"Shove off, Shuuhei," I muttered, grabbing Rukia's wrist. Momo squealed. I felt like I had set off an alarm or something of the sort. But I liked touching Rukia, so I didn't mind that Momo was acting like a fan-girl in euphoria. Wait. That came out wrong…

"Where are you guys going?" Shuuhei loomed close; I could tell he was itching to throw my hand off of Rukia's wrist. A grin appeared on my face; I felt smug. So there _was_ something going on with Hisagi and Rukia. I glanced at her, wondering if she was reciprocating his actions.

She was still, standing at my side complacently, a faint blush on her cheeks.

Pure, masculine satisfaction had me yanking the petite girl along as I moved away.

"She's showing me the costume."

"The jukebox one?"

Momo's voice had an edge of concern to it now. But I couldn't hear her. Blood was pounding through my ears, and I was feeling heady with all the emotions overwhelming me.

"Yeah, we'll be back in a few," I called, my insides inexplicably twisting when I saw Hisagi's face. His entire stance was tense—jealous. I matched him, our stares clashing, fire for fire, as Rukia and I moved away. We turned the corner and disappeared out of sight.

* * *

His hands clamped around my wrist, pulling me along.

We were now out of sight of the others, I felt secretive, scandalous.

"Where is it?" he asked, lowering his voice so that it was soft and husky. God, I loved it when he used that voice. It was like he used it only for me. _For me, and me alone_.

I shook my head. _Snap out of it, Rukia_. _I'm sure he's talked to other girls this way before_.

"It's at my locker." I began to take the lead as I felt his grip loosen. I didn't want that to happen—I didn't want to break contact with Ichigo. In chemistry, we learned that electrons did this. They jumped from orbital to orbital, always wanting to break off from their atom. Always wanting to become a noble gas, something far greater than what they originally were. Was Ichigo like that, too? Would he leave this town for greater and better things? He was a concert pianist after all…

I took my chances. I grabbed his arm, looking up into his face. I felt bold and defiant, perilously balanced on uncertain excitement. Our eyes met for the first time in several days. There was the communication of raw, sincere emotion.

"Promise me you won't laugh?" I asked sheepishly, when I had gotten over the initial shock of meeting his gaze.

His lips quirked up into that idiosyncratic smirk of his.

"I promise."

The sun was peering through the trees in the courtyard, throwing bright, gold rings of light on the hallway floor. It felt like we were walking across a pond, jumping across gleaming lotuses of gold.

We walked past the bathrooms, the attendance office, Ukitake-san's math classroom. I felt like gouging my eyes out just from glancing through the classroom window. The poor souls.

My hand still hadn't left his arm, and part of me wondered why he allowed me to keep it there. Wasn't he worried someone would see us and misunderstand?

We stopped at the row of lockers, a dull, rusty blue in the dim hallway lights. We were next to the cafeteria, where several students sat scattered across the pools of tables and chairs, serving their detentions.

"Let me guess," he walked forward, my hand fell back to my side, "it's…" He put a finger to his lips, then pointed.

"This one."

I cuffed him on the ear."Fail."

He winced, rubbing the victimized earlobe. "I'm surprised you could reach that high, midget."

I stepped on his foot smartly, smiling as he bit back a shout and swiftly moved away from me. The lock clicked merrily as I spun the dial, "It was this one, idiot."

"I was close…and how was I supposed to know where it was?"

I shrugged, snapping open the lock and opening the door. The hinges squealed, and I studiously ignored the attention the noise brought to us. There was rustling of plastic as I grabbed a hold of the cardboard, which had been flattened and crumpled into a plastic bag for transportation purposes. I tugged it out, grunting when I stumbled back into Ichigo's chest.

"Why are you standing so close, idio—"

"Quiet, or else they're going to look at us again."

His voice was soft, and he hadn't moved; he was still holding me in his arms, hands on my elbows, preventing me from falling. Ichigo pushed me back upright, slowly, carefully. Then, he leaned in, encroaching on my personal space, chin brushing the top of my head.

"Hope you don't mind," he murmured, before slipping his hands into my apron pockets. I almost squeaked, face heating up into what I knew would be a most ungainly red. Our faces were hidden behind the locker door. There was silence from the cafeteria.

"What are you doing?" I hissed, trying my best to not get flustered by his proximity.

"My hands are cold." He curled his hands into fists, moving them in my pockets for emphasis. I swallowing thickly, trying to ignore the feel of him on my thighs through the silk fabric of the dress.

"So you're groping me to warm them up?" I snorted, trying to shoot him a scathing look. His head on the top of my head prevented him from doing that.

"Shut up, midget. I'm just using you." came his low reply.

I rolled my eyes. Egotistical Ichigo was egotistical. How could I ever have forgotten that? There was nothing personal in this, except that he was trying to humiliate me.

I pulled away from him abruptly, almost laughing when his head rolled off mine and smacked into my shoulder.

"What the hell," it was his turn to hiss. "Why did you do that?"

"Because I don't take kindly to having strangers touch me like that."

"Strangers?"

He frowned. I narrowed my eyes and glared directly at him, clutching the cardboard to my chest protectively.

"Yes, that's what I just said. Strangers."

"So…I'm nothing but a stranger to you?" His voice was strained. The look in his eyes was lost. I felt as if I was trying to a shake off a puppy that had followed me home.

"Yeah, basically. Look, I've known you for almost a month, but still…" my own voice faded. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't touch me like that."

I walked away from him, leaving him in his stupor.

Deep inside, I felt it was a regrettable moment. It was like we were on a ship that was sinking, and the places we were headed to, the places we were supposed to go—it felt as if we wouldn't ever reach them.

My feelings for him were so unclear now. From the beginning, I had despised his very existence. His devil-may-care attitude and his charisma had rubbed against me the wrong way. And now, I was fighting to keep myself from looking in his direction every day during homeroom. I was nervous, and I didn't know what to say in front of this kid. And this all confused the hell out of me and scared me.

Falling too hard, too fast.

I walked around the corner, ignored the exclamation of the student I had nearly run into.

I couldn't think straight about Ichigo anymore.

Were we friends or were we strangers?

My fingernails dug into the cardboard, I bit my lip to keep myself from crying out loud. All the cracks in my façade were being exposed, and I felt hopelessly drawn to Ichigo. It was as if I felt he could protect me and make me feel safe. This was what Kaien had promised. And that promise was what he had broken.

* * *

A/N: The whole misuse of 'impalpable' was supposed to a kind of a joke on all the characters, since they all really don't have a clue what the word means. : ) Let me know if you find it too confusing, and I'll try to find another synonym, haha. A shout-out to Sakana-san, because she's absolutely wonderful for editing this chapter for me and giving me awesome critique and letting me know when I'm being stupid on grammar and whatnot. Thank you thank you thank you! :)

Oh, and the song lyrics Rukia said out loud is from Calling Out, sung by f(x)'s Luna and Krystal. I was listening to it as I was revising, so yes. Cookies for people who listen to f(x)!

Thank you for reading. And as always, reviews are welcomed and will be greatly appreciated!


	10. Chapter 10: Passionate

FullMetal Alchemist: Brotherhood took over my life for a few weeks, so sorry for the absence! I'm planning on writing some Edward x Winry fanfics now, puahaha. Sorry for the small update…I figured I might as well do each chapter from a different POV. Next week is going to be Rukia's POV.

I think the reason why I keep running out of motivation to write IchiRuki is because I've fallen out of love with Bleach. And we haven't heard from Rukia for what…like…a hundred chapters? An exaggeration, sure, but still…the IchiRuki flames have started dying down for me. What to do, what to do :[ I guess that's why I'm so inspired to write EdWin…because FMA was such a wonderful plot and there are so many interesting things to go off of. Anyway, you'll be hearing from me again in a few days with the first chapter of my FMA story!

10

I found my way back to the classroom. All the tumultuous feelings in my head made me feel like I was swimming; drowning even. But it's not like I needed air to breathe…my lungs heaved within my chest tiredly to no avail.

Rukia was already there.

I stepped inside, my skin prickling as I felt the tension in the air. The walls were festooned with shredded bits of black paper mache and sequins. I knew I shouldn't have left Keigo to do the decorating. It looked like a bizarre cross between a Mardi Gras party and a funeral.

In my body, it felt as if there was not an ounce of courage left. My fighting heart was at a standstill; but still. I wanted to talk to Rukia. I took a step to her, then another. At this point, my mind was screaming at me to stop, but I didn't slow down. I knew if I paused even for one second, I would stop completely.

Her seat was awfully close to the door, so I reached it in the matter of seconds. Her back was turned towards me; I considered clearing my throat or something. But I didn't—I just stood there standing like a moron, watching her petite form, which was curled over in indecision. She had the costume in her hands, kept creasing the damn cardboard and making an awful cracking sound.

"Are you going to put it on or not?"

She turned around quickly, her face flushing. She looked up at me, her eyes all wide and startled like she was seeing a ghost. I almost smiled; I towered over her. Our height differences were so big. I had to remind myself now was not the time to fuel her Napoleonic complex.

"A-ah, Ichigo! Don't scare me like that!"

"I'll scare you however I want," I argued, knowing it sounded childish. Her fingers were tracing patterns on the cardboard, all these sympathetic shapes. She always thought with her hands. What I mean is that she always had to be doing something with her hands whenever she was in deep thought. If she didn't have anything to hold, she'd have them fluttering against each other like birds. Snow-white birds.

"Ichigo…what happened back there was…"

"Don't worry about it." My lie had a sour taste to it—it settled like acid, dissolving on my tongue like morphine. Wonderful, wonderful poison.

Rukia shook her head, this damn lock of hair falling out across her forehead. Those strands of hair always did that. Every time, I was tempted to sweep it away, back behind her ear.

"Is it really…are you okay with it?

I shrugged, "If I'm not, I'll be fine. Besides, when have you ever worried about me, Rukia?"

She flushed, slapping me with the cardboard. It made a hollow sound, I smiled, stopping it with a hand. Then, I guess she didn't have anything better to do, so she bowed.

Rukia _bowed_. It was almost a ninety-degree thing. How old-fashioned.

"I really am sorry, Ichigo!" she stammered, staring up at me with a piercing look. It was like she was trying to convey all of her feelings of sincerity. Part of me didn't want to believe her; I'd learned enough from my previous girlfriends. But another part felt light-hearted. It was refreshing seeing a girl like her make so much effort to get her point across…someone who was as sincere as her…

My hand raised of its own accord, landing on the crown of her head. I felt like I was petting a cat; her head kept bobbing as I stroked her hair. "It's okay. It really is."

I decided I was being stupid; it wasn't as if she was my girlfriend or anything like that—she had no obligation to keep my feelings close to her heart.

It was infatuation; it had been infatuation all along.

And was it so wrong that I was losing myself in those rapturous feelings?

"Ichigo?"

I looked down at her. Her eyes were shut tight, as if to suppress some type of emotion. There was finely-wound tension in her small frame. I let my hand fall from her head.

There was an awkward silence before I grabbed the cardboard from her hands [why the hell was she still holding it?] and popped it open, creasing it into shape. I stared at the strange contraption in my hands, the slimy trails of glitter and…_Chappy stickers_ lining the surface.

"Holy shit."

"Shut up!"

She snatched it back before I could scrutinize it and make any more unholy remarks.

"The glitter is pretty gag-worthy, but Chappy brings it up a notch." she admitted, studying her creation, eyes all pensive like she was critiquing it or some shit like that.

I rolled my eyes, "Idiot."

Inwardly, I was exhaling in relief. In this way, she was showing me her white flag.

I slapped her hand, making her drop a corner. Ignoring her protests, I tugged the box open, grabbing her by her waist. She was so delicate, like an ice princess. All that was missing was a tiara.

I shoved the costume down on her, hoping I hadn't gouged her eyes out in the process. That would be quite unfortunate.

"Ichigo! What the hell, let me out!"

"You're the one who agreed to do it!"

"But I don't want to anymore!"

She slumped onto her knees, pouting at me through the unevenly-cut opening, "Why don't you do it instead of me? You'd just fail at working in the café…if someone pissed you off, you'd pour coffee on them or something."

I went down on my knees as well, frowning at her, "That may be true, but the bastard would've been really asking for it. Anyways, I haven't even changed into my waiter outfit yet, so shut up. You want to see me in it, don't you?"

"It's 'anyway.'"

I groaned at her quiet remark, "What the hell is wrong with people these days?"

She laughed at me, the sound soft and silvery.

"It's not my fault you suck at grammar."

I latched my hands onto the arms of the chair behind her, boxing her in. Well, not that she wasn't already boxed in. Ha ha.

"Stop trying to get off topic! This whole thing is for a good cause, isn't it? So stop being so goddamn ashamed of yourself…at least you're doing something." I huffed, barely believing the words coming out of my own mouth. I sounded like a motivational speaker. _Be the pilot of your own life._

"Besides, would you rather hear Keigo singing?"

Her eyes widened in horror, and I smirked, allowed a chuckle to slip past my lips. "Thought not. Now get out there, princess."

She wriggled about in the box, trying to cross her arms over her chest. The movement made her wobble from side to side, like some cardboard penguin. I fought the urge to laugh.

"Not until I see you in yours."

That urge was gone.

"What?"

"You know…your waiter costume."

I released the chair, certain that I would have snapped it in half otherwise.

"Why?"

"Because I'm wearing t-this…_thing_! There should be some type of compensation, right?"  
Right. Compensation…I leaned in, pressing my lips to her forehead. I really don't think I knew what I was doing. When I did know, I realized I didn't care.

I rested my head against hers, looking into those shocked eyes, velvety orbs that I could lose myself in.

"There. Is that good enough?" I murmured. My voice was strangely soft—I couldn't speak any louder. Besides, any louder might have scared her off. It was strange, that I realized I was okay with how soft I acted around Rukia.

Her lips trembled, trying to form syllables. I let my heated gaze fall on the rest of her face, admiring the delicate arch of her eyebrows, her flushed, milky skin. Her scent was warm; familiar. It filled me with an insatiable feeling; filled me to the bones and took me over. I was on a wave, and it was swelling magnificently, crests of creamy foam combing me forward with their movement. Drawing, pulling, dragging—all passionate movements. That's what I felt from within myself; passionate movement.

I exhaled slowly, counting to three before backing away and somehow managing to stand upright. Idly, I wondered if I should offer her a hand. But it would have seem useless anyhow, seeing as Rukia was still on the ground in some sort of a daze. I didn't blame her. I could barely catch my breath; my own audacity had shocked me.

"Be right back," I winked, an arrogant smirk playing on my lips. I turned to Keigo, who had just rushed into the room. His voice was a screech, a thin, nasal scream, "Ichigo! Where have you been? I've been trying to look for you…whatever, you need to get changed _right now!_ It starts in half an hour, for Chrissake, you dumbass!"

I smiled at him good-naturedly, shoving my hands into my pockets, "Don't be calling me a dumbass when you're a dumbass yourself, dumbass."

"Shut up, let's go, let's _go_!" He grabbed me hand and literally towed me out the door. I almost smacked into the door post on the way.


	11. Chapter 11: Sun

A/N: Yay, I've finally written ahead! A lot of awesome angst for you guys up ahead, [in the distant future, mind you] but it's going to be awesome. I love writing angst, haha.

So, hope you enjoy this chapter! I'll update soon :3 And as always, thank you for reading and reviewing! It really motivates me when I see that people like my story, haha, as stupid as that sounds, but we all have our writing insecurities, right?

11

* * *

He looked beautiful. Wonderful. Devastating. It was only way to describe the way his legs seemed to stretch endlessly upward, all black silk, 280 thread count, broken only by the gleaming gold buckle of his belt and crisp white tails of his dress-shirt. His hair remained defiant with lively tufts and spikes of orange. My gaze burned upon meeting his eyes, the blazing color of an autumn storm. I couldn't stop my eyes from roving about his broad shoulders; it was mouth-watering how they tapered into his narrow, streamlined waist. He buttoned the last of the elaborate brass buttons on his wool vest, arguing with Keigo about the fit or something stupid like that. The pattern was argyle, with black and coffee-colored diamonds and cream colored lines. I hated argyle. Hell, why did he have to make it look so good?

I clasped my hands to my face; shit, I was blushing. Kuchiki's didn't blush. [Take Byakuya for an example…I think the only time I'd ever seen him blush was around Hisana.]

Now he was looking at me. God, why was he looking at me? Oh right. I was the one who wanted him to change in the first place.

I felt like running underneath a desk or something, or maybe smacking my head against the wall. At least if I was unconscious, I wouldn't have to pay attention to how insanely attractive he was. I wouldn't have to confront the fact that I was falling for him, for his odd sense of charm, for that soulful look in his eyes as he walked towar—

Shit. He was walking towards me. _Run away_, my brain screamed as I forced my body to comply. I didn't even know where the hell I was going—it didn't matter where, just _somewhere_. My feet moved with agonizing imprecision, like noodles, as some might say. I felt like I was a Marionette doll. I couldn't feel my knees, my knee-caps were going numb. Fuck. Who knew knee-caps could do that? Shit, you'd think if I spent all my time in a hospital, I'd know stuff like that. But I didn't, and Ichigo was getting closer and closer with each passing minute.

"What the hell are you—" Ichigo managed to ask before I banged my hip against a desk corner, tripped and collided into his chest. He grunted, rocking backwards from the impact. I was instantly enveloped in his smell, all wild and hot and masculine. It was like standing in the midst of a forest in the early morning, watching the sun rising, slowly dispelling the sleepy fog. If you breathed deep enough, you could smell the damp bark on the trees, the moist soil of some nearby riverbed. And if you stretched your hands far up enough, try to catch that sunlight—you could feel the warmth that would eventually spill over and set the skies blazing with its intense heat. That's what Ichigo smelled like. That's what he felt like, too, his arms strong and secure, his body lean and muscled. I could feel _him_ through our clothes; he was strong. His nose was buried my hair, I realized, when I could feel his breath, hot and damp, against the side of my neck. I shivered, sensitive in that area.

"Ichigo, get off of me," I murmured, trying to push myself off of him. He only clung tighter. The kid was like a limpet. A very hot limpet. [And vaguely, I wondered if limpets were edible…and if they were—if they were delicious.] My mind…was. I was losing myself, dear God. Who in their right minds thought about—

"Rukia, don't be an idiot. You're the one that's leaning on _me._"

I wriggled, trying to get out of his embrace, but his arms remained strong, caging me in against his chest.

"What are you doing!" I hissed into his shoulder, enjoying his proximity all the same. What a dirty pleasure.

"Rukia, _what _the hell are you doing?" I heard Hisagi's voice from the door, all strained and angry like he had been watching.

Shit. So that's why…

I stepped on Ichigo's foot sharply, slapping his hands away from me.  
"You only touched me because Hisagi was watching, you asshole!" I hissed, glaring up at him in accusation.

"That's not true," he spluttered, hair all mussed as he raked his hands across his head. He did that whenever he was at a loss for words.

Not that I knew his little idiosyncrasies.

It should be illegal how he looked so hot, all bothered and furious as hell. I felt guilty, letting my gaze linger on his form before turning to Hisagi.

"It's not what you think it is, Hisagi, it really is—"

"Stop it, Rukia. I've seen enough already. The way you guys have been acting around each other…I should've known."

My breath caught in my chest.

"W-what?"

"You know, him pulling a fast one on you. What a filthy bastard. He probably just wants to fuck you."

"Hisagi! If you think I'm that easy, then you're wr—"

"I don't know, you seemed to like it, Rukia."

Oh, that boy was going to die.

"_Ichigo_!"

Before I could placate Hisagi, he had withdrawn, taken several steps backward, tension crackling like electricity through the air around him.

"I thought we were friends, Kurosaki." His grey eyes were dark in anger; an approaching storm that was resting on the horizon. A troubled sea, groaning like an injured beast, tossing and turning tumultuous waves.

"Just forget it. _Fucking forget it_. You've been playing me all this time, haven't Rukia? You were so amused, you had me like a toy in the palm of your hand." His hands clenched into fists at his side as he walked away from us, strides long and angry.

"Perhaps Kurosaki would be better-suited than me for your games." He was off then, pelting down the hallway. There was the scraping of shoes against hallway tiles, then I heard the door squeal open and close with a loud groan.

Ichigo stared out the way Hisagi had gone. "Well, shit," he murmured, covering his eyes, massaging his temples. There was a long, uncomfortable pause before he turned away from the door. Then, in an infuriatingly calm tone, he concluded, "What a fucking drama queen." I wouldn't have been surprised if he had dusted off his hands or something, the stupid crazy idiot. He killed me, I swear, he killed me.

"You're the one who was being an ass, don't even think of pointing out anything wrong with him!" I snapped, even stamping my foot to punctuate my statement. I was blissfully unaware of the growing crowd outside as the rest of our classmates arrived. Thank God I had taken off the costume before I had begun my tirade. It would've been something of an embarrassment.

He regarded me nonchalantly before speaking, "You're the one who let me touch you."

That was it. That was the line that made me snap.

It made me so fucking angry, the way he talked like he knew me. The way he was so sure of himself, the way he thought he had seen it all and was some fucking king of the world. I strode up to him, quick furious steps, my hand connecting with his face forcefully. There was a gasp from those watching our exchange. It was a surprise_, really_—Kurosaki Ichigo letting Kuchiki Rukia slap him in the face. Letting this little girl take his throne.

My fist clenched; I didn't give a shit anymore. I was beyond mad he had pointed that out. Pointed out that I was mad at myself…_so damn _mad. He was right. It was all my fault, wasn't it? I hated that he had struck a nerve; had wound me up so tightly I had lost all control. In front of my peers, no less.

The boy was going to die.

But, he had straightened, not even lifting a hand to trace the red mark spreading across his face.

He looked away from me, his gaze lowered to the ground. It made me nervous when I couldn't see his eyes, couldn't see what he was thinking. I was tense, expecting some sort of retaliation. None came. No divine retribution issued by his hands, no cruel jab at my height or Kuchiki bloodline.

"I'm sorry."

His quiet apology unnerved me completely. I actually took a step back, trying to let his words sink in.

"Why are you sorry?" My question sounded stupid, even to me. But I had a reason to be confused. Why was he bowing down to me so willingly? What made it so that…ever-so-proud Kurosaki Ichigo would relent his control to me?

_It couldn't be that…_

"I'm sorry. It's my fault." His voice came softly like an ebbing wave. His head hung dejected and low. A few girls pushed through the crowd, appearing to want to comfort him. _What the fuck_, I almost laughed, did he have some kind of _fan-club_ at school? It was enough that the world adored his music...that the world loved him. Having his moment of weakness as my own made me fiercely protective. It was a moment where all of his defenses were down, a sight hardly anyone ever witnessed, and, naturally, I wanted to be the only one there when it happened. I snapped my head towards them, forcing the famous Kuchiki ice glare upon them. They wilted underneath my pinpoint stare.

He shook his head, regaining my attention, "I'm sorry, Rukia. You shouldn't need to lose a friend because of me."

That sentence just oozed with cheesiness. I crossed my arms over my chest, staring him down, and feeling slightly smug that I felt no pity for him. They didn't call me ice princess for nothing. Well. That's what Kaien had called me. Stupid Kaien…he had known me so well. My lips tightened into a pained grimace. I was going to make sure no-one saw past this façade ever again. No-one would ever know me-whether it be what my laugh sounded like, or what my smile looked like.

Ichigo was still silent, and, I guess, reflecting on his previous actions.

I rolled my eyes. I felt like kicking him…just _something_ to get that pathetic look off of his face. It didn't take a rocket scientist to get the answer, you know?

"If you're sorry, why don't you go after him?"

Ichigo instantly rejected my proposal, snorting and leaning against the chalkboard. He traced his fingers on the black surface. "What is this, a fucking love story? I'm not going after him."

I felt my heart clench, my stomach twisting at his words. Was he really such an insensitive jack-ass? Did he really mean that?_ Jesus motherfucking Christ, Ichigo..._

I narrowed my eyes and turned away. I didn't want to know anymore. The atmosphere between us that had once been filled with warmth was now dying, cooling like embers in a drowned fire.

I stepped out into the hallway, gratified that people took the hint and gave way, clearing a path for me. There was a hushed silence, something that sounded like, "Lover's spat" murmured amidst the body of students. I didn't feel like correcting them. The feeling of disappointment already sat, heavy and dark, within me. That was okay—_I_ was okay, I guess. I had felt so many disappointments over the past year that I really couldn't care about this. But still—was it so much to want someone to love me?

Tears welled in my eyes, but I pushed them back, swallowing thickly. The hallway smelled waxy, lit by squares of reflected sunlight coming through glass windows. Why did this always have to happen to me? Why did everything always fade on me?—not even in a way that was brilliant, even. Everything just died, just gave up on me. I hated that; the worst despair within me revolved around disappointment. Being disappointed, making people disappointed…when did it ever end? Moving towards the doorway, I knew only one thing for certain. I had to bring Hisagi back.

Somehow, I found myself running, hitting the door at full speed, flying out into the open air. The sidewalk grated and scraped against the bottom of my heels. I liked that feeling. It felt like I was ruining something perfect, the smooth sole of the shoe, just so it could be like me. All torn and scraped and ruined. The only problem with a broken shoe was that people saw, and they noticed. They can look at you and ask, "Are you okay?" and you can just smile back and say, "Yeah, I'm bloody perfect." Then, they can take one look at the broken heel and tell you, "Sucks, your shoes are fucked up. They were cute, too."

Sounds stupid, but I wish people did stuff like that...noticed when things were wrong. Acknowledged me for what had happened, what had ruined my life so badly. It's only when you tear off the mask and show them the scars that they get scared and run away. It takes the right person to acknowledge you like that, you know?

I counted the number of times I inhaled and exhaled. A cool breeze lapped at my legs, and I could feel it in languid, cool bursts. The sun was rising, not yet hot enough to disperse the dewy atmosphere of the morning. I wondered where he had gone, if he had taken his car. It would be a bitch to track him down if he had done so. My hand strayed to my apron pocket. Fuck. I had left my phone behind in the classroom. Whatever, it's not like I would go back there with Ichigo probably standing there, smirking to himself. Asshole.

As I stumbled awkwardly across the parking lot, I heard the door open behind me. I didn't look back to affirm who it was. I had decided [quite some time ago] that it was best not knowing a lot of things...that way, nothing could hurt me. After all, ignorance is bliss…or so they say.

I stopped at the curb, toes sinking into the soft grass as I scanned the rows of glinting cars. They were like lazy, metallic beetles, sleeping peacefully in the tranquil silence.

"Hisagi?" I called, disturbing that silence. My heart quickened when I spotted his black car, a sleek black Buick, a silver panther welded onto its front hood. The bumper was dented from some escapade we had had, the band members and I, escaping across a highway somewhere in Arizona, streaking into a star-filled night. Where had those days gone? Those moments, along with their memories?

A wave of nostalgia came upon me; I missed him, and I sensed he had missed me, too. I felt horrible, knowing I had let him down. Shuuhei Hisagi had been so wonderful to me, and I had treated him like a lowly dog. Like he was some personal pet of mine that I could tow around, could abuse to whatever degree I liked. My heels clicked on the pavement as I ventured forward, although distantly, I could hear another pair of footsteps behind me. They were tentative, calculated to fall precisely as mine did. I stopped. My pursuer stopped. Without turning, I closed my eyes, making sure my voice was complete ice. Murderous, even. [I'll have you know that I'm quite good at that.]

"Kurosaki Ichigo, if you take one more step, I will make sure that, in the most vicious way possible, you are not capable of producing offspring in the future."

"Did you really say 'offspring'?" came his lazy answer, echoing through the parking lot, off of cars and the concrete. He walked closer, but I was not willing to let him have his way.

I whipped around, "What the fuck do you think you're doing, Kurosaki?" Each syllable was enunciated with vicious clarity. I tended to do that when I was pissed.

"I'm going to apologize."

For a second I lost my tongue. I could not think of anything to say to that. He had said it in some off-hand manner, as if he was saying something as casual as, "I'm going to go buy cabbage."

Ichigo walked until he was standing close to me, right in front of me. We stared at each other, trying to figure out what we were seeing in each other's eyes.

"What, do you not want me to?" his eyebrow quirked upward in question. His tone was acidic—dripping sarcasm.

"Do you really think you can just walk up to him like this?" I returned with equal fervor, internally raging at his display of arrogance. I would've like to smash his face into the pavement a few times.

"Yes, yes I can."

I didn't respond. There was nothing to argue about, I realized, and I hated that. I hated the feeling that I was somehow wrong and he was somehow right. I hated the feeling that he had started shit, and was now playing hero, trying to fix things. Ichigo always did that—always fucked things up, then managed to make things right. I didn't know how he did it. But it sure as hell was pissing me off right now. It was like he was exempt from all of life's consequences or something. As if nothing had ever gone wrong with his life. Goddamn spoiled brat. I crossed my arms, looking up towards the sun.

After a tense moment, I exhaled heavily, giving in.

"Make it quick, and don't be an asshole about it."

Clouds in the sky were near luminescent, sunlight adorning their soft, pearly, underbellies with gold filigree. If you looked higher, the sky was indigo; traces of the night leaving.

"Okay."

He brushed past me, making a straight bee-line for the car. For a moment, I saw the sun in his eyes.

* * *

Oh, and just saw Inception! OH MY GOSH. I was just thinking of the way I could manipulate it into an Ichiruki hotness fest with it...Ichigo as an extractor, Rukia as his architect or something. Something bad-ass like that. Evil Aizen as the guy they're trying to perform Inception on. I might start writing on that...haha, I'm so impulsive.


	12. Chapter 12: First Kiss

My writing style is starting to change somewhat...I'm incorporating some new styles and taking new approaches to sentence structures in whatnot. Let me know what you think...if anything is confusing, etc. Review review review! Constructive criticism is welcomed with open arms!

* * *

12

The inside of the car was warm and muggy, and it smelled like coffee and wet shoes. It had been weird, almost movie-like, the way I had walked over to that jaded Buick with Rukia watching me. I almost expected some intense music, some dramatic build-up of some sort. All I got was the cold wind, whispering softly in my ear, rakish and fumbling the way it drifted across my face. There was a storm coming.

I knocked on the window, gesturing for Hisagi to roll it down. He complied, although I could tell he was pretty sore about it, and I fished a hand in and unlocked the car door.

"Cheat," he griped, as I clambered in. "Could've just asked me to unlock the damn doors for you."

"You wouldn't have," I said, waving Rukia away. She stared at us, indecision clear on her face. I rolled my eyes at her, and her sapphire eyes narrowed, clouding with annoyance. She whipped around, starting back towards the school. I scoffed lightly; she hated being left out of the loop of things.

I ran my finger along the glove compartment, "Look, I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"Don't act stupid, Shuuhei. Like I knew you had a thing for Kuchiki, man." I exhaled slowly, trying to learn how to breathe in the muggy air of his car.

"Like I'm acting stupid. You're the one who was getting all close and personal with her _in front_ of me. Did it ever cross your mind that I had feelings for her…oh you know, since you saw us _together_ at the café?"

"I thought you guys were just friends."

His anger flashed in his eyes. He looked at me, gaze unfathomable as he tried to say something. Instead, he swallowed bitterly, turning his head and looking out his window. "Is that how it seems to everyone else? Is that really it?"

I shifted uncomfortably. I hated personal discussions. There was something unsettling about revealing your emotions to people you barely knew.

At a loss for words, I opened the compartment, my finger deftly catching the cigarette pack that fell out. "This is wrong." I muttered, more to myself than him. Hisagi didn't hear though.

"Hey, put that back! How'd you even know what's in there?"

"Lucky guess. Got a lighter?"

"Man, don't pull this shit! You can't just walk in here after pissing me off and want a smoke!"

I sighed, leaning back in my seat, hearing the leather creak. "Look, I already said I'm sorry. I really didn't know."

Hisagi sighed heavily, hand twisting the lever that allowed him to recline further on his chair until he was lying on his back.

"You expect me to just accept such a half-assed apology?"

"Hisagi, don't be an ass. I didn't know you liked her."

"You couldn't tell?" he sounded rather disgruntled. I kinda wanted to laugh, but I knew it would've made him even more sore. Hisagi was the type of guy who was naturally, persistently, constantly sore. He would probably break your jaw if you did something like laugh at him. I didn't plan on testing out my theory.

It was weird though, seeing someone like him getting all quiet and sentimental over a girl. When I met him, he was like barbed wire, bristling with youthful rebellion and indignity. He had been someone mad at the world. Over the days I had known him, weeks, months…I had never seen it. I didn't know how I couldn't have—the way he lingered near Rukia every time I saw their group of friends together, the way he always knew what was on her mind.

"How long have you liked her?" I asked, my thumb circling the plastic on the box. It fit perfectly in my hand, cool, light, slender like a deck of cards.

"Ever since I met her."

"What do you mean?" I sat forward on my seat, leaning so I could catch every one of his words. I tried to play it off, acting cool, suave…but my mind was on full throttle. I was intrigued. Rukia's past—this was something that I wanted desperately to hear. I could figure out what had happened to her. Why she had locked herself up and thrown away the key.

"The first day of school I met her. It was freshmen year here, everyone was all uptight and shit. As soon as I walked in, there had been all eyes on me. I know it was kinda my fault for having piercings and stuff—"

"Isn't that against the dress code?"

"Like I give a fuck. Anyways,"

"Anyway."

"What?"

"It's not 'anyways'…it's 'any—" I felt my lips quirk up; imagined Rukia and Ulquiorra smirking at me.

"Shut up Ichigo, do you want me to tell my story or not?"

"Sorry."

He grunted, kicking his feet up on top of the dashboard, angling himself more comfortably in the seat.

"It was lunch time and I was doing my own thing, sitting by myself at the table. She came to join me. I don't know why she did. She was quiet though, we didn't talk, she just opened her book and read."

"Haha, Rukia…reading?"

"Yup. I thought she was weird, but hey, she didn't judge me like everyone else did. I wear whatever the fuck I want, I do whatever the fuck I want. That's how I'd been and how I'll always be. She liked that, and…"

His voice faded. His tongue flicked out, traced the silver hoop encircling his lower lip, "I think I fell in love with her for that. She saw me for who I was, as cheesy and crummy as it sounds."

He shifted, sat upright, "It's not much until you meet someone that makes you feel that way, Kurosaki. You don't realize how much you're missing when you finally meet someone that has what you need."

I nodded, staring out into the parking lot. The sun shone through the windshield of Hisagi's car, heating up the air inside. I felt rather sorry then. I tried to blame it on the way the light shone, reflecting off the concrete. It made me sorry for Hisagi, although I wasn't quite sure why. Maybe because it was blinding…maybe because it created a heat so stifling that it made you want to look away.

"Hisagi…"

"Ichigo, you need to tell me," Hisagi cut me off, leaning forward, eyes serious. My fingers wrung around the cigarette box nervously. I avoided his eyes.

"Is there something going on between you guys? Look at me. Is there?"

I looked out at the sun again. At the bright light.

"Ichigo, answer me, damn it!"

"Not that she knows of."

He backed off momentarily, "What do you mean?"

"I mean…I don't know if she wants me back. Because…" I dangled my right arm outside the window, pressing the fingers of my left hand to my lips. I was pretending I was smoking a cigarette. The cigarette box remained unopened.

"I know I want her." I pretended I was breathing out, and there were scarves of smoke billowing out at my every syllable.

"You do, do you." One steely eye slid over to me, watching my pantomiming. I let my elbow loosen, like the broken arm of a marionette doll, and let my eyes follow the imaginary cigarette to the ground. He didn't play along, complain about the waste it was. We both knew.

He let out an exasperated sigh, fumbled for his car keys. As he jostled the brass object into the engine slot, I asked him, "What are you doing?"

"Getting a lighter, man. What the hell were you thinking, losing it like that."

We both knew he was talking about me, not the cigarette.

"I've got one right here." I gave him a thumbs up, curling my fingers around a pocket of air.

He rolled his eyes and passed me a lighter. I wrapped my fingers around the teal green, removing the cold, silver shell from the metal wick and scraping a flame to life with my thumb. We sat in silence, just watching the sun come up.

* * *

I was scared. Hisagi was probably halfway between pummeling the snot out of Ichigo or possibly braining the kid with the golf clubs he kept in the backseat. I never knew why Hisagi kept golf clubs in his backseat, he didn't even play golf. I think Renji did. But that was beside the point.

I tapped my foot impatiently, eyeing the two girls next to me who were putting up the banner. _Maid Café, Live Singing!_ it proclaimed in bright, red letters. I cleared my throat. One of them looked at me. I immediately decided her hair annoyed me. "How long are you guys going to take putting up that banner? It's been five minutes," my voice was a low growl; I hated waiting for people. The pit of my stomach was swirling and churning nervously…it had been ever since watching Ichigo and Hisagi fight. Something about me hated the idea of conflict. Not the kind of conflict that entailed any physicality, but the kind that was psychological. It always made me clam up; something about trust issues, my therapist had said. But that was a year ago. I'd learned a lot since then...therapists were useless. They were all the same—one eye on their watches, the other on your wallet, spouting bullshit about Maslow's hierarchy of needs. Like I fucking _needed _anything.

I always went out of my way to avoid close, personal interaction with people, _but _as the cliché goes, trouble always came looking for me.

"We need more tape," the girl with annoying hair remarked, shooting me a look that was clearly meant to be hostile. I considered shoving her over so that banner came down with her. Alas, I could not do so, or else the entire class would skin me alive, so I settled for rolling my eyes.

"Get it yourself." was my icy reply before I wheeled on my heels and marched back inside the classroom. It was starting to look somewhat decent, the tables hugged tight by swathes of black silk table-clothes and vases of ruby-red roses. I liked white roses better, but Ichigo had called for red. Half of me wondered if he had done it to piss me off.

"Ru-kia~!" Momo's voice cut through the serene atmosphere of the classroom. Several people looked up, frowned at the rude interruption, before settling back to work once more.

Momo wound her arms around my neck, callously flattening the lovely lace ruffles of the collar line.

"Get off, you're ruining the dress!"

"Ahh, Rukia! I'm wearing the same one! Isn't it _gorgeous_?"

"_Everyone_'s wearing the same dress, Momo. And shouldn't you be outside handing out flyers?"

"What? Don't be silly Rukia, as if I'd do that all day."

"Then who's doing it?" I grabbed Momo by her wrists, bodily restraining her from waltzing away.

"I gave it to carrot-head and pot-head who came strolling through doors just a moment ago." She stuck her pinky up in the air for emphasis, "Looks like they've kissed and made up. Everything went according to plan, Lady Rukia!" I released her, wrinkling my nose with disgust, "Don't even say that Momo. Ugh. J-just…" my hands flew up to my collar-line, stroking the lace there, trying to decide what to do. To stay with Momo and make sure she didn't wreak havoc or…to go outside and make sure the both of them were really okay. I found myself walking towards the door.

"Don't do anything stupid!" I seethed, turned briefly to jab a finger in her direction. Damn boys.

"I won't, Rukia!"

I heard Ichigo's voice before I got to them. I turned the corner, narrowly avoiding a throng of excited lower-classmen. Goddamn it, I hated people. They were standing in the middle of the hallway, creating a sort of human barricade, swerving at passer-by's and forcing them to take pamphlets. I saw Hisagi plaster one to an unfortunate freshmen boy's face. Storming up, I removed the offending object and shoved it back into Hisagi's hands.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Oh hey, Rukia."

"Don't 'oh hey' me! You j-just….you just can't do _that!_"

"Do what?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ichigo approach a girl. Her pale face brightened with a blush. I glared past Hisagi's shoulder, wondering if it was permissible by school rules to grab her by her hair and shake her. My own jealousy scared me. But I was not jealous…no, not by a long shot…right?

"Rukia, back here."

Hisagi shifted, blocking Ichigo from my view. His eyes were teasing, "What were you staring at?"

"Wh-what, I wasn't _staring._" I stammered, trying to move around him. He shifted, the grin on his face growing wider, "You were _totally_ staring."

"Don't be ridiculous, Hisagi, Kuchiki's _don't _stare."

"Oh really?"  
"Yeah, really!" I placed my hands on his chest, trying to push him out of the way.

Damn Hisagi's quick reflexes. One moment, I was about to grab ahold of him and bodily remove him from my proximity. The next, I was tripping forward, hands closing on air, falling into someone's arms. There was a grunt, and we tottered forward awkwardly.

"Rukia, you're such an idiot."

Ichigo. His arms…around me. Again.

This time I was fast, shoving him off of me, my face reddening. _Calm down_, I willed myself. _Think like Byakuya. What would Byakuya do? Would he get flustered like this_? I watched him shake his hair, letting the auburn strands fall into his eyes. Eyes that were burning into me, scorching me with their intensity. _No…but Hisana might._ My heartbeat skipped a beat.

"Sorry to interrupt the lovefest, but, it's about to start," Hisagi's gravelly voice pierced through the haze surrounding me. Is this what love did to people? Not that I liked Ichigo…not by a long shot. Right.

People were filtering past us in the hallway, unaware of the moment and Ichigo and I had had. Or maybe it had been just me, because he was thumbing through the pamphlets left in his hand and walking back to the classroom. How could he do that…just fixate me with one of the steamiest looks in human history and just walk away? _Because all boys are like that_, my mind reasoned. But today, I didn't feel like agreeing with my mind. For once…I felt inclined to chase after him. Me. A Kuchiki. Chasing after a mere boy. Byakuya would have scoffed at me. But Hisana…A desolate despondency settled over me, cloaking my bones.

"Hisagi," I murmured. He turned to me, "Let's go."

"No, no…" I grabbed the sleeve of his leather jacket, "No, listen. The doctor told us Hisana only had a week left to live."

His breath left him; I didn't blame him. We just stood there in the middle of the hallway, him staring at me in disbelief, my eyes shaded by my downward gaze at the floor tiles. I saw old gum and broken bits of pencil lead.

"Rukia…I had no idea. I'm so sorry."

"She's lived a good life…don't be."

"But she's only twenty four."

I swallowed the sourness rising within me. "Yeah, but there are something's you can help. What can I do about it? Turn back time?"

His arms closed around me, hugging me.

I closed my eyes, sinking in to the warmth emanating from his body. Here was Hisagi, foolish foolish boy, always with me, providing me so much comfort and strength. I opened my eyes, looking past his shoulder. Ichigo was standing at there, watching us. I saw something flicker in his eyes. I closed my eyes. I didn't care anymore; I was beyond thinking of _everyone's_ feelings. I did that in the past and it had killed me. _He's only a boy…and he will never love me. _

Ichigo started walking away.

* * *

"Alright everyone, let's take a seat!" Renji's voice growled through the megaphone he held in his hand. Beside him, Momo wrung the hem of her dress nervously. It was Rukia's time to sing.

Someone flicked off the lights in the classroom. I leaned against the wall, next to the door, comforted that I could escape at a moment's notice. I hated being trapped. A small spotlight pierced the darkness, trembling as someone adjusted it, shuttering it so Rukia was lit in a glowing, golden sphere.

"Thank you for coming everyone." A soft shy smile. She never smiled like that around me.

"This song is called, Love Does Not Wait. I wrote this with the help of my friends," she was interrupted by a small smattering of applause and hoots from the afore-mentioned friends. Rukia laughed, leaning away from the microphone stand and then back again. Like tides washing up on a beach.

"Yes, I really couldn't have done it without them. For me, this song is personal because, " her voice quavered slightly, but she pulled the hurt in quickly, "my sister is fighting a disease right now. It's spinoerebellur ataxia. And there's no cure." A few murmurs of sympathy.

"But," she blinked at us, her large, luminous eyes strong and vivid, "we decided not to focus on those negative things. We decided that we'd celebrate her life. And I hope that our message is carried across…we put a lot of effort into the lyrics, because for me," her voice rang out strong and sure, "music is supposed to be like that, right? Carrying the passion across? So, tonight…I hope you feel a little more in love with life, no matter how cruel it can be." There was applause. Waves upon waves of clapping and shouts of, "Do it, Rukia!" and "You've got this!" I smiled at her through the darkness, even though she wasn't looking in my direction. I had captured her words and locked them away in my heart.

Hisagi appeared with his bass, the dark varnish gleaming as he crossed the spotlight, melting into the dim shadows of her right. His callous hands strummed the strings, roving over them and turning them gently as one would look for seashells in the sand. The soft chords imprinted themselves into the air, warm strokes that built on top of each other, over and over again, lifting higher into the air, until it was all lost in an impressionist sky.

"And let it be known, in the night,

I held your hand while you slept.

The crickets chirped, soft and sweet,

because they knew you were dreaming .

All the hurt melts away

when I see your smiling face

and I pray I can hold on…

As long as I can, I will watch you,

greet you with open arms,"

Her eyes, long-lashed, smoke on night eye-shadow, glimmered with unshed tears. I wanted to take the pain away from her; her voice held a world of misery and weariness. But it was soft, painfully soft, and I felt I would disrupt the flow of her lyrics as they washed over me if I so much breathed. So I held my breath.

"Some day, I will meet you again,

and then, I will be smiling too.

You'd tell me I'm stupid, that I'm a silly fool

for hanging on so long,

for smiling when I'm sad.

But what else can I do but greet you

with happiness, imprinted,

delicate, snow-fall,

crystalline water droplets

falling from the heavens

that kissed you the day you were born."

The song ended like smoke, drifting across the rooms, the soft beat of the bass and Rukia's lovely voice still pulsing in everyone's heads. The spotlight faded, and momentarily, the classroom lights flickered on again. Everyone stood up immediately, their faces lit with enthusiasm, clapping for Rukia's heartfelt serenade. I saw Hisagi snake his arm around, touching Rukia's shoulder, pulling her to him. I was pissed, goddamn it, I was pissed. That was supposed to be me touching her like that, giving her support. Just like what had happened in the hallway, I quelled my intense emotions—told myself I could not replace Hisagi in her life. I straightened, applauding as well. I kept my lips pressed in a grim line, my eyes tracing the ceiling. Already, I wished the day was over. When I brought my eyes back to her, my heart nearly stopped when I realized she was staring at me. She was smiling at me…but it was a sad smile. I wondered how many people caught it, it was there then gone so quickly I almost missed it myself. But it had been for me. _Rukia_…

* * *

I walked down the deserted hall way, the kitten heels already hurting the soles of my feet. I was tempted to take them off and continue along my way, but the formal etiquette lessons Byakuya had hounded into me would not permit such an unlawful move. I tottered along, wincing softly with each step I took.

"Need help?"

I nearly jumped. God _damn _it, I hated surprises. Scratch that, I hated _everything_ about today. Except for the singing. That was nice. During the opening performance, I had tried to peer into the crowd, looking futilely for Ichigo. Half of me wanted him to be brooding outside. The other half of me wanted him to be here…to see me. But that was the problem. I didn't want him to see me like that—all vulnerable and emotional. Music was an intimate experience for me…when I sang, I felt as if I was bearing my soul for the world to see. I didn't want him to see such a soft, feminine side of me. Towards the end, I had found him. Leaning against the wall, perpetual scowl on his face. When we finally made eye contact, he had this unfathomable look on his face, and it had made me uncomfortable that he had seemed so human, so close to me then.

Here he was now, just around the bend, staying hidden within the shadows. Anger flared within me when I realized that he felt sorry for me.

"I don't need your pity," I growled, righting myself, willing myself to walk past him as swiftly as I could manage. Which really wasn't fast at all, considering that my feet really did hurt.

As I was about to pass him, his hand caught my wrist. He came into full view then. I had to admit that he was _attractive_; the way he wore that suit should have been illegal. I couldn't stop staring at how long his legs looked, how lean his torso was, how broad his shoulders were—hell, how strong his grip was on me. Pure masculinity.

"Looks like you do need my assistance." That's all he said before he swung me up into his arms. I flushed, trying to keep my dress from riding up.

"Ichigo, what the hell are you doing?"

He gave a low chuckle before walking down the hallway.

"Ichigo!" I hissed, "people might see _us_!"

"Let them," was his casual reply before he turned to his right, into a room of sorts, and slipped inside. He shut the door behind him. We were in the nurse's office.

"Now let's see your feet, princess."

"Don't call me that!"

He shook his head at my reaction, setting me down quickly on the bed. The cold and stiff mattress presented an uncomfortably contrast to the feel of his hands on my body. Not that I was ever going to let him know how good it had felt, being carried by his strong arms. I had felt the muscle underneath the thin cotton; had felt the warmth emanating from wiry sinew and soft skin. His scent permeated the air between us, and I had half the mind to pull him by his collar into a searing kiss. But after he studied me for a moment, he turned, clearly not interested in such activities [much to my relief/disappointment] and began searching through the grey cabinets for medicine and bandages. I reclined on the bed, shaking the shoes off of my feet. God damn my feet were cold. Wriggling my toes, I wondered if I could break them off, one by one, like Holocaust victims had done during the winter. But there was no winter here, there was only Ichigo. I felt incredibly self conscious, wearing a dress and all, and although I knew Ichigo wasn't a sleazy guy, my mind refused to listen to reason. _He is a boy._

Somehow he found a wash bin, filling it with warm water from the sink. He brought it to the foot of the bed. I sat upright, flushing. "What are you doing?" All words left my mouth as soon as his calloused fingers clasped around my ankles, dipping my feet into the water. Unwittingly, I let myself sigh, loudly, empathetically. It felt _so_ good.

The moment that sound left her mouth, I knew I was in trouble. We were alone, in a secluded space. She was wearing a dress. A rather skimpy dress, might I add. It accentuated curves I didn't even know she had; her slim waist, the modest slope of her breasts, the gentle swell of her backside. Not that I had been looking. Not at all. I ran my thumb, slow and gentle, against the arches of her feet. She was purring, a feline in recline in my hands. I smiled—she was usually stoic and cold-hearted. To have her relax by giving her such a simple pleasure...I found happiness welling up inside of me that I was able to melt her harsh exterior. I pressed my thumbs against the balls of her feet. She sighed softly. I shifted my focus, trying to remember why we were here in the first place. Oh yeah. After watching her totter about all day grimacing like a fox that had gotten its paws ensnared in traps, I had decided I just _had _to do something about it. Which had led to me semi-creeping on her. [My mind had reasoned that it was for a good cause.]

Eyeing the blisters on her feet, I knew it was going to be a painful procedure.

"Is it okay if I put medicine on?" I asked, my voice a low rumble. My fingers rubbed smooth, gentle circles against her skin. Trying to comfort her.

"Mmm."

It was neither an affirmation or rejection of my proposal. I leaned forward, trying to match our eyes. She wouldn't open hers.

"Rukia." I smiled, shaking her ankles gently. She was so cute like this, leaning precariously over an edge, bordering on sleep.

Eventually her arms moved to cross over her face. The movement left her in a vulnerable position; all pale, velvet skin and dark, silk shadows. I had to remember how to breathe.

"Let's just…stay like this for a while."

My heart hammered in my chest. I released her feet, despite her small protest, and hovered over her. My hands settled on either side of her arms, bracketing her against the bed. Her form stilled as I tilted my head downward at her. My breath, warm and unsteady, fanned over her crossed limbs.

"Rukia, please look at me." It was maybe the fourth time I had said her name in the last five minutes. I couldn't get enough of it…how easy the syllables slipped out like oil on water.

"No."

"Please? Rukia?"

Rukia retracted out of her shell for a bit. Just a bit. Because she was lowering her arms, curling them around my wrists, looking back at me. She seemed so tired.

"What do you want, Ichigo?"

It was the mere sound of my name that did it. Tentatively, I dipped down, trying to be as gentle and affectionate as I could. My world faded into a sweet oblivion as my mouth found hers. It lasted only for several seconds, tender and chaste, a mere dusting of my lips on hers before I had pulled away. There was a tension in my body and a roaring in my ears that died down as soon as I realized there was nothing but a calmness that resonated in her eyes. I had been so scared that I could have made her panic. I swallowed. I never wanted to hurt her, ever. Her hands tightened on mine marginally, as if she had read my thoughts. As if she had accepted my feelings.

"Why are we doing this…" she trailed off, blinking at me, dazed.

My gaze softened, wry humor seeping into my words as I answered her levelly, "Because we can."

Her lips curved into a small smile, "Smart ass."

"Idiot."

Rukia arched into me, her hands stroking a line of fire up my forearms. I groaned softly at the sensation.

"Kiss me again."

"You're so demanding."

"Just do it."

I could feel her smile as my lips descended upon hers once more.

The door trembled as someone knocked, once, twice.

"We're looking for Rukia. Rukia…are you in there?"


	13. Chapter 13: Rain Comes Down

A/N: Looking back, I realize how much my writing style has changed. Sorry for the short chapter, but I wanted it to stand out from the others...like...so people can feel the shock, I guess. Because in times of panic and depression, doesn't it always seem like everything happened so damn quick? Maybe just for me, but yeah. Enjoy.

* * *

13

We stared at the door, as if the force of our combined stares could magically force the pounding to stop. As if we could make time stand still and we could seize the moment. They always told us _carpe diem_ right? Carpe diem my ass.

I was still hovering over her, subtly pressing her into the bed.

"Ichigo, we should probably answer the door."

My body was not working in tandem with my rationale, and therefore did not agree with her statement.

Her hands came up, pressing on my chest lightly, and a worrisome reality settled in my stomach. She wanted out.

"Come on, move it."

I stiffened. Her calm, resigned tone pushed me to my senses, broke me free of the golden haze that had previously surrounded my senses. Something was happening. Something was about to happen to Rukia; _my_ Rukia. She had played the part of an ice princess impeccably, but now her barricade was falling. She was in pieces. The snow was melting.

"Wait…let me answer it." I wanted to shield her from whatever truth lay behind the door, but she, being Rukia Kuchiki, would not allow for it. She strode past me, her steps unfaltering, "Let me go, Ichigo. I can handle it."

The door clicked open before I had a chance to retort, her voice washing through the room, draping itself about the atmosphere like cool silk: "May I help you?"

It was Hisagi. His face was pale; worried. My fingers clenched into fists.

"It's your sister. She needs you—now. There's an emergency…"

My heart stopped. Halfway across the room, standing a few paces away from me…I felt Rukia's heart stop too.

"Rukia, let's go, I can drive you…I'll take you to her." Hisagi's tone was heavy with uncertainty and a restrained panic. We didn't know what to do; little by little, Rukia seemed to slip from our hands like glass and fell, tumbling, glittering in an unresolved light, into crystalline shards at our feet.

She shook her head, eyes wide, stepping back from the hand Hisagi had brought forth to comfort her.

I could hear words, soft syllables, on the edge of her lips; see fine tremors shaking and running through her like an electrical current.

"No…no…not yet. It's not her time to go yet. Please, God…no!"

Then time seemed to speed up. That's the only way to describe how there was a terrible cry as she tore out of the room, and how I pelted after her, calling her name as she disappeared into the darkness. It didn't seem like a reality...or, at least, it was a foreign reality I had never lived before. The air swam, tepid and slow, in my lungs. The hallway never seemed to end, the lockers flashing by us, dirty green, slick, glinting, rusty blue. We were running out of time, but we kept going. We ran and ran and ran.

"Rukia!"

She wouldn't stop running; couldn't stop running, I knew. Our footsteps sounded against the floor, hers panicking, mines matching like clockwork, racing with desperation. I knew the school well enough to know we were running down the eastern corridor, towards the junior parking lot. It was where my motorcycle was parked.

"Rukia, no, seriously, wait! How do you fucking expect to get there?"

"I'll run there, Ichigo! God damn it! I'll run!" Her voice was wild and hysterical.

The girl was completely out of her mind. Instead of listening to Hisagi and letting him drive her to the hospital...My eyes narrowed. I knew then, that I would have to bring her to that terrible place of death. To where my father worked, to a place filled with harsh, bright lights and the unanswered prayers of countless people. In a twisted way, I felt smug. It was not with Hisagi that she would break…_I_ would be with her when she broke—and _I_ would catch her as she fell. Within me, my heart swelled and I almost felt like I was painted with fire.

Two steps, one leap.

My arms—tight and bracing against hers.

My feet—carrying us through the door.

My eyes—searching for the glinting black shell of my motorcycle.

"Get on," my teeth were gritted, my pulse beating rapidly from the adrenaline roaring through my veins. I thrust the kickstand up, handed her my helmet. She didn't protest, just wrapped her arms around me, and I clicked the key into place, revved the engine, shoved it into fifth gear. We screamed out of the parking lot, the tires scrapping asphalt, burning dark black streaks into the road. Delving into the stream of traffic, I prayed that it would be green lights all the way. Rukia's hands clutched my shirt furiously; behind me, she pressed her face to my back, her tears wetting the fabric, touching my skin. I swallowed the bitterness in my throat. Overhead, the sky was impassive and grey, watching the tragedy unfold.

* * *

I couldn't handle the smell of the hospital, all the antiseptics and medication, dribbling out of wires and needles and oozing through human veins and seeping inward to touch upon organs. It was a curiously morbid affair—how life came here, crawling on its knees, and how life died here, weak and alone. Hisani could not possibly die alone; I would never, ever let her be alone. We rounded the corner of the reception area, my cut and bruised bare feet curling from the coolness of the linoleum floor. I didn't care; everything inside of me was numb at this point. Doctor Unohana rushed out of the emergency room, white doctor's robe billowing like the foamy crests of a tumultuous wave. Her eyes were deep and serious, unsettling in the way they perceived me with unmatched keenness.

"Come this way." Her voice, normally gentle and tender like a blooming flower, was curt and short. Things were bad. My stomach dropped even lower, I felt like vomiting. Suddenly, Ichigo's hand was on mine, clasping around the cold digits, curling them into the palm of his hand. I closed my eyes, my head throbbing with the shock of everything that was happening. Only Ichigo's touch kept me grounded. We walked through the corridors, the stark white lights exposing my tears all the way. I couldn't look at Ichigo or Unohana—I didn't want them to _see_.

Unohana led us into a room, 412, [God, I was going to remember that number for the rest of my life] where Hisana rested, propped up in bed, Byakuya sitting next to her, holding her hands. He didn't look at me when we entered. In that instant, I knew our suffering was the same.

"Excuse me, Ichigo, could you please leave?"

The shock that Unohana knew his name jolted me from my daze momentarily. First name basis?

"I don't know…Rukia…are you going to be okay?"

I sniffed, creasing my brow in frustration. Half of me wanted him right here with me. Half of me wanted him as far away from me as possible…because…he didn't need to be involved with someone like me.

"Hello Rukia."

Hisana's voice came from the bed, light and silvery like wind-chimes. Except she was not just wind-chimes; she was the wind. She was every element of the earth, of the sky, of the water. She was my world.

"Who is he?" She smiled at me. It was her usual, gentle smile, but I detected the world weary weakness behind it this time. _Don't be afraid, for I am always with you_.

I didn't realize I had said the words out loud; Hisana's eyes glimmered to life with tears.

"Oh, Rukia…you don't need to say that, I already knew!"

The floor felt unsteady underneath my feet as I stumbled my way over to her, my eyes trained desperately on her poor, solitary figure, buried amidst the white snow of the hospital sheets.

We embraced…my hands sought all of her that I could hold. Her thin hair, her frail body, her paper-thin hospital clothes. My beautiful sister Hisana, casting away the last of her petals, laying herself bare in my arms.

The door closed; two pairs of footsteps walked away from our room. Ichigo had left. The world faded from me at that realization, and I gave myself away to the crushing calamity within me.

My eyes closed, I inhaled the delicate lavender fragrance Hisana always seemed to exude. Even now, to me, she seemed radiant…her wide eyes still gleaming with emotion, albeit sad emotion…her touch, as soft and gentle as an angel's…_oh, God, why are you taking her away from me? Why are you taking my sister…my only sibling away from me_?

"Don't cry, Rukia…please don't." Her hands remained clasped in mine as I kneeled beside her on the bed. Byakuya brushed his fingers against her hair…lovingly, adoringly. It broke my heart to see tears, silver streaks, on his face as well. But he was silent and calm in his grief—unlike me. I hated that. I was ruining everything. The sobs were threatening to burst out of me. I had to breathe deeply and desperately, the air in the room was too thin.

"When I'm gone, I want you guys to take care of yourselves. Please do. I know it'll be hard…but do it for me." Her hands reached out for me and Byakuya simultaneously; we held her small, porcelain hands and listened. Hisana's words imprinted themselves in my mind, a dancing, silver melody that played much like a tuning fork held up to the wind, quivering underneath the stars. If I had one moment I could go back and re-live, it would be this moment—Byakuya, Hisana and I, joining hands. Peaceful harmony. Suddenly, death didn't seem so scary anymore, and I wasn't as afraid to let her go.

* * *

I paced the hospital waiting room, ignoring the steady ticking of the clock on the wall, staring down at the monotonously white floor tiles. Vaguely, I could see my own reflection.

"Ichigo!"

I turned around at the deep voice resounding in the room. My father emerged from the filing room, Urahara-san following him. My eyes widened, eyebrows quirking upward, at the gauze covering Urahara's left arm.

"What's going on here?" I asked, my voice gruff from my time of waiting. All the tension in my body had seemed to bundle itself in my throat, cutting off my air supply and making me feel light-headed.

"I should be asking you that question," my dad sighed, thick fingers weaving up to the breast pocket of his lab coat, pulling out a pen and clicking it precisely. He turned to face my Kendo teacher. Correction. English teacher by day—Kendo teacher by night. What a fucking strange man. It was funny how I never noticed how strange the juxtaposition had been until now.

"I want you to rest up that arm for around a week, okay, Kisuke?"

"Sure."

My dad's thick eyebrows narrowed, "Don't give me that attitude. This better be the last time you land yourself in my hospital for such a stupid reason, okay?"

Urahara-san waved a calloused hand at Isshin, casting his advice off as if it was a bother.

"Okay, okay. Thanks for your help Isshin."

"Uh-huh."

My dad gave Kisuke Urahara one last cryptic glare before whirling to face me.

"So, does your presence here have anything to do with the lovely Miss Kuchiki that showed up half an hour ago?"

I was silent. I lowered my gaze from the two men standing in front of me, looking at my shadow, which had stretched itself out and lay quite comfortably on the floor.

"There's nothing we can do for her sister," his apologetic tone surprised me. I jerked away unintentionally as his hand landed on my shoulder. The motion must've hurt his feelings, because he backed off immediately.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to…" I grumbled, face flushing. Urahara watched me with his watercolor eyes, blue-grey and faded turquoise. I looked at him helplessly, hands clenching into fists at my sides.

"I just don't know what to do. Sorry."

With that, I turned away from them, heading down the hallway. 412. I stopped short of the door just as it opened, Byakuya and Rukia Kuchiki stepping out of the room as the epitome of grace and composure. Byakuya's hands held Rukia's shoulders gently, protectively. It was an unnatural gesture for him, I could sense how tense he was in his position, but the motion was still wonderfully intimate. In that moment, I was sure Rukia would be okay, with this stoic, impenetrable brother of hers. Someone to stone-wall around her, guard her from the cold whisperings that announced the intrusion of death into her life. But then, I saw her face. I saw then that she was not okay.

And it broke my heart.


	14. Author's Note

To my dear reviewers/followers,

I am so sorry for the long hiatus I have placed on all my stories. Part of the reason lay in my busy schedule/days. But most the reason is because I'm ashamed of what I've written thus far. I feel like I've cobbled together some fantasy world that doesn't make any sense [in both Oh! and Noblesse Oblige] and I'm too embarrassed to go back and re-read and re-edit and make things right. I feel like I've disappointed many people, including myself, with my sloppy plot and writings.

So now, I'm ready to face those demons. I'm ready to take apart my stories and reassemble them so that you, my wonderful readers, will be able to get lost in the world I create for you.

Again, I apologize for giving you less than 100%. I promise that I will be re-posting Noblesse Oblige/Oh! within a week. Please subscribe to my account so you can get updates on when the new versions come out!

Love,

Brokenx3Dreams


	15. I'm Back!

Dear Readers,

I am incredibly sorry for my hiatus. This note is just to let you guys know that I am not dead, and I don't plan on going away any time soon! These past few months of absence have seen me battling multiple eating disorders [bulimia, prominently] depression, borderline personality disorder, and stupid school drama. So, understandably, I haven't had the energy or mindset to write in quite some time, but now, I feel the urge to get back into fanfiction writing once more. My eating disorder (s) have plagued me for a long time, and after a few close calls and the obvious signs my body has given me, I have decided to recover. I have tried recovering countless times, each leading to a worse relapse, but this time, for sure, I know I am going to try my hardest to live again. I have so many stories to share with you all, and I can't wait to share my writing on here again. Look forward to me re-publishing my stories in a few weeks, as I will definitely have more time and energy to write

Sincerely,

Brokenx3Dreams


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